Another Cause For Cancer

Since the beginning of time, or at least the past couple of decades, mankind has been plagued by a problem. A problem singlehandedly responsible for obesity, rising divorce rates, and Al Gore's Nobel Peace Prize. It has also been linked to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Of course, you current events savvy people already know what I'm speaking of. For the rest of you, I refer to the annoying beeping sound videogames make when you're nearly dead.

A staple in the Pokemon and Zelda franchises, the noise has driven countless gamers into insanity. I personally kill my little guy whenever I get to that point in any game. It's the only way to maintain my hold on my mental facilities. I'm absolutely certain it's the only reason for the end of the Golden Age of the Pokemon Fad. It's a sad day when our nation's children have no idea that Squirtle evolves into Wartortle, but can easily name our nation's presidents. What is this country coming to?

We need to take action on the "Annoying Beeping of Communism" problem. Write your Congressperson and tell them your concerns. They will likely never get the letter, but their staff might laugh until drool runs onto their legal notepads. This is because they don't care. They are funded by the "Beeping Interests Economic Program" (acronym pronounced "Beep," in various degrees of vehemence, depending on the amount of anger being expressed). They couldn't care what happens to you, as long as they get their check from the Beeping Special Interest Groups. I suggest that we send them a Gameboy, with a nearly dead Pokemon and the sound on full blast. The drool on their legal notepads won't be from laughter then.

The Chargers

The title of this blog is actually an attempt to gain the sports fan readership. They've been tricked. Yesterday my mom took my brothers, my sister and I to the Timp Caves. I was not particularly excited about this trip, in fact I was vocal in saying that I didn't want to go look at a stupid hole in the ground. After seeing it, I still wasn't convinced that it was all that great. I mean, I could have had a comparable experience if I went on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland, plus I would have been sitting, not to mention listening to a pirate song and watching very "real" looking pirates fight each other.

What got me even more was how much they charged to go into the place. It cost money to drive into the park. Then it cost money to hike to the caves and listen to some guy with an awful sense of humor tell us about cave formations. He really reminded me of Dwight K. Schrute, except he lacked a certain element that might have actually made him funny. In fact, he even looked like Dwight when he turned out the lights and was holding a candle to his face. However, I would never trust him, because he said his name was "Bob," when his name tag actually said "Robert." I didn't know which to believe.

Why in the world would we have to pay to go see the caves? Well, this is America. We have taxes, which basically means we pay the government to work. So, obviously, we have to pay to look at a natural formation in the country. It makes perfect sense. On the way down, my mom wanted to visit the gift store to see if they had playing cards. I'm glad it was closed. We wouldn't have been able to afford them anyways. If the place charges seven bucks a person to hike three miles, I can only imagine how much it would cost to buy some fun.

Pass the Conference Bowl

Yesterday in Seminary, it was the Conference Bowl. I was hoping that it was a bowl of candy, or maybe a bowl of popcorn, but it's actually a competition to see who's class has the best knowledge of what happened in Conference. At least, that's how it's supposed to work in theory. However, because you can use notes, not to mention the notes of anyone in your class, it's actually a competition to see which class has the best notetakers. I prefer the candy.

Of course, I'm sure you're all dying to know how I did. Well, I got to go up there once. My question was asking for the name of the document created by the leading Christians under duress from Emperor Constantine. Of course, I know all of you are just screaming "It's the Nicene Creed, you moron!" I didn't scream that, but I did write Nicene Creed on my whiteboard, and quickly pushed the button to ring in my answer. No one else knew the answer. A lesser man might boast about this, but mostly I'm just concerned. Why is it that the question I answered instantaneously, without any thought, was actually a matter of Catholic history?

I won't try and answer that. I'll let whoever reads this blog leave their own sarcastic reason. Just bear in mind I wasn't the only 0ne who was out of line. Bro. Lowe, my seminary teacher, was cheating, just as he always does, letting the students in his class use his notes. "Low on the competition, high on the happiness," he declared. "Lowe in the competition, high on happiness," I revised, ad libbing a newspaper headline.

I'm sad to see that Conference Bowl has degenerated to the point where even the Seminary Teachers are cheating. What was once a noble tradition for the pure in heart is now just an excuse to call other classes mean names. Classes set themselves above each other in a show of pride. I need something to drown my sorrows in. I need to eat to relieve the pain of my soul. Pass the Conference Bowl, please.

Homecoming Or Homestaying

Lately, I've been getting a lot of accusations of being antisocial. Because I feel a need to defend myself, I will do it on a blog, so I don't need to talk to any of those people.

I didn't go to Homecoming. I did, however go to the football game, and I even wore my spirit shirt. Anyone who actually knows me knows that that is the most school spirit I have ever displayed in my life. We pummeled the Springville Red Devils. "And thus we see that the devil will not support his children at the last day, but doth speedily drag them down to hell." (Alma 30:60)

I'm glad I went to Homestaying instead. Here are some reasons why:

- Every time someone said that there was a girl crying at home because of me, I would just think of the wallet not crying in my pocket.

- I don't plan on going to UVSC (It will never be UVU for me). Not even a dance there.

- George Bush doesn't have Homecoming, he has a Homestead. What's good enough for W is good enough for me.

- I see enough of those people on the weekdays, I don't need to see them on the weekends too.

So there you have it. Four perfectly good reasons for being antisocial and staying home. Oh, and the fifth. Razzleberry Pie. I bet my little brother is sad he missed out on that. Sucker.

The Number Game

The other day I walked into swim practice and was confronted with a vision of Orem High's JV Swim Team. There was a kid there who was in my sixth grade class, only I didn't remember his name. All I remembered was his number in the numerical system that was set up in that class. #30.

I began to realize what was done to me in that class has twisted and scarred me. I remember many of the students in that class's faces, but not many of their names. Not one of their numbers has been forgotten. It's sick how these people, the memories, and the personalities, have all been erased by numbers. They no longer hold any more value to me than an integer like 18 (Jake Mortensen).

This summer, I was assigned a number at work to clock in and clock out of. I memorized it in a day, and now it comes without any thought. My subconscious sees me as this number. I can't help but think that numbers are erasing our identities. Each time I open my math book, I am confronted with numbers. Are all the problems in the book people who lost their identities, remembered only in math books? What if one of the problems I did today and hated was actually my great great grandfather? Are my pretend friends from childhood only remembered as imaginary numbers (23i)?

The number business must stop. We need to stop chanting "We're number one," at sporting events. We're just losing our identities when we do. Take back your name! Write off those numbers! At least spell them out! Vote for the presidential candidate that supports abolishing numbers. Let's get rid of the numbers once and for all. This is 26, over and out.

School Spirit Salad

This week at school we had "Hi Week." As if the questionable name was not enough, we were also supposed to dress up to show our "spirit." The theme was Salad, which deceptively enough, did not require us to make Adam and Eve clothes out of lettuce leaves. Thankfully, we just had to dress up like a different type of salad each day, even though salad technically has nothing to do with our school; the Mountain View Lettucehead would not be a good mascot (though Lettucehead would be a good name for a band).

Monday: Italian Salad Day. The problem with this day was that most people had never had an Italian Salad in their lives, and had no idea how to dress up. For some reason, most people thought pizza and pasta were Italian, not salad.

Tuesday: Ranch Salad Day. No one drenched themselves in ranch dressing. Most people just dressed up as cowboys, showing how little our student body actually pays attention in US History. The cowboys were pretty much wiped out by the ranches in the Ranch Wars. Whoops. If spikes weren't against the dress code, I would have worn a belt of barbed wire.

Wednesday: Thousand Island Salad Day. No one dressed up as an island by standing in a pool, let alone a thousand islands. For some reason they wore grass skirts. Guess we should have called it Inhabitants Of A Thousand Islands Salad Day.

Thursday: Caesar Salad Day. This one was really the only one that really made sense. It seemed simple, just dressing up as Caesar. However, there was a problem. Aren't togas against the dress code?

And so there you have it. The sad story of "Hi Week," culminating in a sophomore who overdosed. Wait... that wasn't right. Friday was Spirit day, which is just basically a contest to see who can find the biggest objects that are red or gold and then wear them (the winner wore a fire truck). I personally did not dress up any of those days. Quite frankly, I think it's a scheme by the Student Council who would just love to feel so cool and powerful because they could get people to wear fire trucks. I refuse to give them anymore power than the power to cut class on "Student Council Business." And the power to get "Hi."

Blackberries: If Only They Were All Phones

Blackberries are delicious, and they look so tempting to pick.

But to get to the berries you have to go through this:

And even the flowers you go through look like this:

A lot of people in my family will get into this stuff, physically placing themselves into the thorns to get a berry. Me, I figure some other sap will do it, and I don't have to get hurt. I tend to pick them like this:

Or, even better:

Teachers In Washington

Wherever I go around Washington, I am constantly reminded that school is coming back. The names of streets and various places that have to do with school are all over the place. I know that There's Eugene, Oregon, and he hails from Vale, but in Washington, I caught a glimpse of Clark's Restaurant. Apparently not one for beating around the bush, he named a restaurant after himself. That or someone who had his class named it after him... As if this wasn't enough evidence that Clark is out and about in Washington, I also saw Custer Street.

And then there was Carpenter Street. I was particularly glad to see this, because Carpenter is really almost all I'm looking forward to about this upcoming year. Unfortunately, there was also Rich's Stove, Spa and Patio. That was definitely a harsh reminder that school stinks.

Crazy Canadians

This story happened to me about a month ago, but I've told it to several people, and I figured that I should just stop telling it and have them refer to a written format. That way I don't have to waste my time trying to be funny with the same joke over and over again. I don't like to be redundant.

So anyways, about a month ago I was working the late shift at the Rec Center. There was an old lady splashing water on her grandson from the hot tube. I was watching her very closely cause she had already told the head guard that she had had multiple brain strokes. I told her that she probably shouldn't be doing that, and she climbed out and stuck her finger into my face. "You're one of the mean, nasty ones, aren't you?" she demanded. "Yes, I'm the meanest and the nastiest one there is," I said, not sure if she was altogether there.

"I've been there," she said, "I was the first female Canadian lifeguard. I had to do all the regular stuff, and swim 40 miles." I wasn't sure that that was possible, seeing as how my 20 minute mile time would still leave her at over thirteen hours at my top speed. "Smoking is bad," she continued, "that's what happened to me." She walked off, leaving me highly bewildered.

Five minutes later, she came back. Dreading what she would say, I scanned the opposite end of the pool. "Have you seen my sexy daughter?" she asked. "Um... I can't say that I have, ma'am," was my response. She shambled away, leaving me feeling somewhat violated, and totally confused. Crazy Canadian.

The Bobby Pin Challenge

On Thursday, it rained in the morning, resulting in an almost empty pool. I was a rover, so basically I was supposed to wander around helping any lifeguard who needed help with patrons. But there were none, so I created the Bobby Pin Challenge. The challenge was to pick up as many bobby pins off the floor as possible. I won, with a stunning 33 and a half bobby pins (I know, everyone has a problem with "half," but this literally was half a bobby pin.).

But this got me thinking. People can get fined for littering, but women lose bobby pins all the time without any punishment. This is because it is part of their biological makeup. Cats spit up fur balls, but but women are much more like dogs in this particular aspect. Women shed bobby pins. You can't hate them for it; it's just their nature.

However, it's important to consider the bobby pin issue when making choices in girls. It can make a huge difference in the bobby pin budget, not to mention the number you'll have to pick up. The shorter haired breeds shed less. Keep this in mind when you're finding the girl for you.

I'm sure this post will draw criticism from girls everywhere, but I was just telling it how it is. I'm sure you could find similar information on Wikipedia. However, I'll end up a martyr for this post. You'll find me on the pool deck, bobby pins stabbed into me in every direction. Pick 'em up, and you might be the new record holder of the bobby pin challenge.

Jerk With A Cause

Yesterday, at the Scera Pool, I got my first save. I had to put the little boy into a special hold called the "head chin splint" to keep him from moving his head. "I'm fine," he protested, despite having come off the diving board and landing on his chin and then flipping back into the water. I tried to calm him and explain what I was doing. He tried to move his head, repeating, "I'm fine," as if I couldn't hear him. As he thrashed, trying to escape, I desperately tried to keep him under control, and keep him from doing irreparable damage to his spine. We had just moved him onto a backboard when the supervisor, who is an EMT, released him. The kid looked at me like I was some sort of jerk, stopping his fun for something as small as possible paralysis.

This has really made me question my role as a lifeguard. I've come to realize that my job as a lifeguard calls not for a rebel without a cause, but for a "jerk with a cause." I enforce irrational rules all day, just to make people hate me. As an example of what a spoilsport jerk I am and the irrational rules, I tell people not to dive into two feet of water.

People hate it when I tell them that they can't do flips into the shallow pool. Basically, they want to be safe, but not protected. It makes no sense, but the "spirit of customer service" is alive in our staff. Basically, that means we let the old people do whatever they want. Old people get MAD when they don't get their way. I learned that when we tried to close the Rec Center Pool on time. We close five minutes early to give them five minutes to use the locker rooms (actually, it's just so they get out of the locker rooms faster, cause it takes FOREVER to get them out). Some old lady got REALLY mad at me cause she had FIVE MORE MINUTES!!! (As if she could do anything much in that time) Anyways, after talking to her, the time was up, and it was too late for her to get in anyways. I felt like a jerk with a cause.

Youth Conference At The Reef

This last weekend, the Youth in my ward went to Capitol Reef for Youth Conference. Minus the twelve and thirteen year olds, of course, who are excluded from every activity that could be called "The For Real Deal" on the basis of their age, a classic textbook case of age-ism. Anyways, Capitol Reef is an area that looks like most other places in Utah except for the fact that it has signs telling you not to litter or destroy the wildlife. Which is basically the concept of a Park in Utah.

I'd just like to clarify though, that Capitol Reef is nothing like the Great Barrier Reef. I know of someone who thought that, and I'd just like to console her by saying I thought that too. When I was three.

Signs
This isn't a section about freaky aliens that were wussy. This is, as most readers will understand, a section about the various stupid signs that I saw there. And those "most readers" will also be disappointed to know that there was only one. But it makes up for it in sheer quality. There was a city called Fruita. Established in 1895. Obviously, San Francisco got all the publicity, while this little enclave of... alternatively oriented people... lived a quiet life until the federal government made them a PARK. And they could no longer PARK it there.

Everybody Chris Chun Tonight!
Chris Chun is the next Chuck Norris slash Jet Li slash Jackie Chan. Slash Sean Connery. This kid is slick. He could kill you without thinking, because everyone in his family is raised from birth to become a killing machine. We were afraid to wake him up, because he might accidentally karate chop one of us while he was still groggy from sleep. In fact, we were kind of afraid to be in the same tent. I was on the opposite side, but I still figured that it would take only a couple seconds for him to blow through Grant, Kyler and Matt. And I would be next.

But the security benefits outweighed the death possibility. I didn't want to be kept up all night as incompetent little boys tried repeatedly to collapse our tent. This time, with Chris Chun in the tent, there was no such problem. Mostly because if they had, a karate chop stance hand would tear through the tent walls, searching for flesh to tear, and bones to break.

By the way, Kyler, when I told my dad about Chris Chun, he immediately began singing "Everybody Chris Chun tonight." Obviously, that's the way the song really has to be.

Sunrise Hike Beats Twilight Book (Take That, Girls)
This section actually has nothing to do with that Twilight book, which I know nothing about, except the girls in our car were trying to explain to me that the vampires glow when they're outside in the day. Actually, we went on a hike to see the sun rise. It was highly overrated. Kyler and I actually ended up admiring the manmade lakes that we saw more than the sunrise, mostly because you can't really look at a sunrise if you value your sight.

What was really amazing was that Chris Chun ran the hike. In flip flops. It was incredible. He's insane. But the problem was he ran past the point where we were looking at the sunrise. He's just a little too excited and does more work than he has to.

BS Go Fish
No camp is complete without card games at night. After we got through playing several games of Scum, we decided to play Go Fish. I suggested that we could lie, and the other person could call BS like in the game BS. Well, it sounded like a great game, and all the rules were set out, so we started. Grant asked for my queens and I had none. He called BS, and I started to show him my cards. It was at that point that I realized that the game wouldn't work. The game of BS Go Fish degenerated from there until it became regular Go Fish. At least we were playing a game though. The girls were all sleeping outside to avoid the bugs in their tents. Very intuitive.

Real Men Of Courage- Cliff Jumping
This particular Real Men Of Courage Award actually goes to a woman. Yes, the winner of the award was Sister Winn, who jumped off the cliff into the waterhole. The runner up was Terri, who is a professional, and made the biggest splashes ever, despite the fact that she was smaller than most of the guys who went off of it. As is basically the usual pattern with these, I was the Not So Real Man Of Courage who didn't do it, despite the fact that Jasmine was getting even more worked up about me not jumping off than she was about me not reading Twilight. I watched as Sister Winn, who is older than I am, and had already had her "Crazy Teenager" stage of life jumped off the cliff and fell. She was probably making a defiant gesture, and yelling a war cry as she went down. Personally, I think she may stolen my "Crazy Teenager" stage. Valeri, please steal it back for me. And I'll never make another Wonder Woman joke.

The End
I realize that the people who went would really want me to summarize the ride home and Kadan, Kyler, and Uncle Jed's converstation, but I really can't. You'd have to be there to understand. And I'm sure Kyler will write a "Stomach Of An Ox" sequel of his victory over Alyssa, so I'll refrain from stealing his thunder.

Worst name for a product. Ever.

Swedes In Dire Need Of Environmental Help

It has recently come to my attention that a new environmental problem has been brewing in Sweden. No, it isn't the global warming problem, because that is brewing everywhere. Global warming is probably mostly caused by fossil fuel consumption used to produce the energy needed to get the noble message of global warming out into the public. The problem that the Swedes face is overfishing.

For decades, we've thought that the salmon were in danger, that dolphins suffer from tuna fishing. But today, I'd like to submit a new victim, the Swedish Fish. I'll be the first to admit that I love Swedish Fish, and that I eat them like crazy. It doesn't matter what size they are; I'll eat the big fish as well as the baby ones. Heck, if they had caviar, I'd gladly eat that.

Obviously, since I'm admitting my problem, I can be trusted to see this issue without bias. This is one of the classic ways to pretend that there isn't bias. "Admit and Attack," the triple A of bias-less-ness. So, we all need to eat less Swedish Fish. Go out and write your Congressperson. They probably won't do anything. They're out enjoying their complimentary meals, and their "conferences" in Disneyland. But don't worry, there are other ways to get action.

Ecoterrorism would be an excellent way to protect the Swedish Fish. I say we hold an Ikea hostage until the Swedes are willing to cooperate. This would be highly effective, and I propose that at the same time, we declare that global warming is destroying the environment of the Swedish Fish. Linking any problem to global warming gets instant attention and results.

This blog is going on for too long. This is a direct result of global warming.

Yellowstone: Old Faithful Blows

I went on the Geology field trip this weekend. I'm not going to pull a Clinton and ask people to define "geology field trip" when it's obvious. I'll come out in the open and admit it. We went to Yellowstone. In an overview, I'll just say that it was kind of lame. Geysers constantly erupted sulfur and water into the air. Let's just say the place stinks and blows. Literally. I mean, who wants to see a bunch of holes in the ground spewing water and steam? You see one geyser and you've seen 'em all. But I think it's about time that I revert back to the trusty "title and blasphemy" method of summarizing. After you read this, go to ludwig2028.blogspot.com to see the ultimate picture summary of the trip.

Sir Clark- Unstoppable


Nothing can stop Sir Clark. No one stops Sir Clark. Ever.

Old Faithful- Fidelity Is Highly Overrated

We went to see Old Faithful. You can't not go see it (take that, English teachers! Double Negative Punch!). This is because its regularity is greatly appreciated in a day and age when fidelity is all but ditched on the Roadside Of The Highway Of Ditched Morals. However, when I got there, it was twenty minutes late in erupting. So much for being faithful. Obviously celebrity status has made Old "Faithful" Hill (Faith Hill, get it? HAHA!!!) feel like it can ditch punctuality on the Roadside Of The Highway of Ditched Courtesies.

It's really not that great anyways. I mean, I could have made Old Faithful with my garden hose. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Old Faithful is just a hose operated by some government guy. It erupted late because the guy fell asleep. Stupid bureaucracy.

Attack Of The Geyser Crabs

Kyler and I were looking into one of those disgusting hot springs, when Kyler said, "Wouldn't it be cool if I could create a fish that could withstand boiling water?"

"Oh, they've already got worms and crabs that can!" Declared the father of a certain Canadian that I happen to know, whose name rhymes with Monsteel.

Later, Kyler and I were kind of confused. "How exactly do you cook a crab that can withstand boiling water?" asked Kyler.

"I dunno, maybe you could freeze it first," said Preston.

So for the whole trip, Kyler and I were watching out for those geyser crabs. I've heard that they are quite vicious. Several times, buffalo tracks would go into the "thermal crust" and then disappear. I'm sure the geyser crabs got them. And that "one guy's" son also got attacked, obviously. He came to school with a brace on his ankle the next day.

Attack Of The Buffalos Too


Yellowstone is home to a lot of these guys. Personally, I think they never should have made it onto the Federal Endangered Species List. I think they should go on the Federal "Things That Make Great Burgers" List. But I'm not a rich Congressperson who gets complimentary meals from lobbyists. So instead, I'll try and show the darker side of the buffalo to the public, as sort of a complimentary meal from this lobbyist.

It may look cute and fuzzy, but this is actually a monster. A man eating, ferocious beast. Look at this sign I found in the bathroom:
Yeah, not a friendly little guy. Look at him toss that little Japanese tourist! He even hates Asians! I mean, these things are monsters! They terrorize the park! The rangers are scared of them! They're so rebellious that they commonly defecate in areas that people aren't allowed to go. Somehow, they get into enclosures penned up with a two foot rail, make their statement, and get out again! It's probably some sort of way to show the gang territory of these vicious creatures. I say we abolish them. Meaning, we kill them all and have a National Buffalo Burger Appreciation Day. Congresspeople love to make national holidays while they enjoy their complimentary meals. Pretty soon we'll have National Holiday Appreciation Day.

The Asian Mafia- Perfect In Every Way

We played Mafia. It's a fun game. However one of the games was the ultimate, perfect game of mafia. Not a single member of the mafia died. Those who were sitting on the log formed a voting block. And three of them, including the Asian, were Mafia. Those who spoke against them were quickly dealt with, and as the power of the citizens dwindled, the power of the Mafia increased. Eventually, the members of the Log Block that weren't Mafia had to be killed, but they had served their purpose. It's creepy how awesome organized crime can be.

The Sign Section
I always have this section, and it's always in the beginning of the summary. So I decided to switch it up, and maybe startle you hard core veteran summary readers.

The first awesome sign I saw was that there is a city called Hitt. I'm sure they don't get much done there. How productive can you be when you just sit around hitting each other. I mean, here is a bunch of people who love violence so much that they named their city Hitt? Someone give them a copy of Halo. Or maybe they're all a bunch of mafia hit men...

Unfortunately, I can't remember anything else. It's been so long ago that I forgot (five seconds after I got home). So there it is. The summary. It's a little late, but beggars can't be choosers, eh? Not that I'm saying you're all beggars, but... ok so I was. I'm done. Please send hate mail to my house. The address is 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, DC 20500.

This I Believe

A short word of explanation. This is a paper we were required to write for English. It is entirely blaspemy, so I sure hope you have a lightning rod when you read this. Here goes:

I was in the 3rd grade when I realized I was different. “Chinese, Japanese,” yelled the kids on the playground, pulling their eyes back to make slits. I stared at myself in the mirror that night, not sure if I liked what I saw. I wished that I had eyes that opened all the way, and white skin. I wished that I were more like everyone else. But over the years, I’ve found that I am empowered. That’s because I believe in being Asian.
It seems like yesterday that I took my first standardized test. I have now taken what seems like millions of them, and they all appear to have the same questions, however easy. This was where my peers and I discovered my remarkable affinity for test taking. “He’s just an Asian,” they’d say, seeing the scores. “He can block out all the wrong answers with those squinty eyes.”
Of course, there are things I can’t block out. I can still see the day when I nearly got beaten up in my mind’s eye. The kid was big, and probably destined to play football in the future. I was Asian, and at the time, I looked destined to play the part of hobbit in the Lord of the Rings. Naturally, I thought I’d end up squished or mutilated like the victims in Law and Order. I was shaking, a little damp. This was before puberty; the wetness was not from sweat. The other kid looked like he’d been through puberty three times. He was a gorilla-- perhaps his mother mixed up his milk with steroids when he was a baby. The fist wound back, and my short life flashed before my squinty Asian eyes. “Don’t fight him! He’s Chinese!” Warned his cohort. “He’s probably a black belt like Jackie Chan.” Falling to my knees, I thanked my lucky stars and my lucky genes, happy to have survived another day.
There are other Asians that are masters of survival. I’ve watched a lot of martial arts movies, full of survivors. Jackie Chan. Bruce Lee. Jet Li. They were all Asian. I watched Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, and all the characters were able to fly. I tried it, but it really didn’t work too well. Recovering from the scrapes and bruises, I realized that I’m only half Chinese. I must be missing something crucial in that other half of my genome. I guess just looking like a full Asian doesn’t endow one with the power of flight. But looking like one does mean I’ll never have to go tanning.
Sometimes I still wish that I had blue eyes and blond hair. Sometimes I wish that I looked like everyone else and wasn’t so conspicuous. But those are just some times, and I’ve found that my differences empower and protect me. And I remember just how great the color of my skin is every time I walk past a tanning salon. I believe in being Asian.

Blogging In Retrospect

This is it. The final blog that I'll have to write for Sir (King) Rich. Never again will I use a joke that begins with "Unless your name is Captain, My Captain..." Never again will any blog be contrived to prove "analysis and synthesis" were occurring. I cannot even guarantee that I will ever "analyze and synthesize" again. It fills me with anguish. There is an empty spot in my heart where "analysis and synthesis" once resided. I feel that I will probably end up filling it by eating for comfort. And yet, as the cliche goes, life goes on. And so, I will look back on this year, and see just how my paradigm has been enriched through "analysis and synthesis."

I feel that I have increased my ability to draw connections between random isolated events, such as Peeps and Howard Dean. This will be infinitely useful in the future, when I become a conspiracy buff. I will also probably now actually be able to figure out who committed the crime in Law And Order before the end of the show. And this will all be accomplished by putting random bits of information together that have no connection.

I feel that I have also increased my ability to attack anyone and anything. I have upheld the virtues of Asian society and ability, maligned the Mexicans, scorned the British, and mocked the French. I have attacked Christmas. I've slandered Democrats and Republicans alike. I've mocked the school system, derided fads, and disparaged the law. I've disrespected civil engineers, Dr. Suess and garbage men. I feel confident that I could take this trait and become a radio personality and do a great job like Imus and Al Sharpton.

Thus, at the close of this year, I feel that blogging has empowered me. No subject is too large, too abstract, or too respectable to be attacked. No connection cannot be proven through manipulation of facts and "concrete detail." This assignment has prepared me for the real world. I feel that I will someday change the world in much the same way that Josef Stalin did. But first, I have to make it through the last few weeks of school. Sir Rich, this is the Chlorine Addict, over and out.

The Bean Rebellion

A couple of weeks ago, my friend President Ludwig wrote about the evils of our friends across the northern border. This week, I will be forming a conspiracy theory about our border buddies to the south. Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo. It is a joy-filled occasion that no one except the supermarkets celebrate by selling frozen ethnic food for "low prices." It doesn't seem intuitive that we would celebrate some other country's independence. I thought I smelt something fishy, and probably not just the frozen fish tacos in the supermarket.

I have come to the conclusion, through extensive research (playing guitar) and analysis (napping), that the grand Empire of Mexico is attempting to take over America. Not only are there maple spies among us from the north, but there are also bean agents from the south. This has been going on since World War I with the Zimmerman Telegram. This is evident in the way our society is coming to be dominated by their culture. Not only is "salsa" taking over the food industry, but "salsa" is also a type of dance! Sombreros are used as mind control devices. I would dare you to put one on and show me you're able to resist the desire to do the Mexican Hat Dance, but then you would become a pawn of the beans.

What really steams my broccoli (and I can't even eat it cause it's Fast Sunday), is that they are trying to take over traditional Asian roles. Mexican rice is the cheap knock off of fried rice, and tacos and burritos are like demented egg rolls. NAFTA is effectively moving our economy from China to Mexico. We thought we were getting a good deal when we tapped into cheap Maple drugs, but now our figurehead economy of numbers and papers can be toppled by the flatulent (defintion: having unsupported pretensions; inflated and empty; pompous; turgid) whims of one bean, leading to a stench of panic and terror within our country. Personally, I'm disgusted by the bean flatulence, and I urge all to take action. We need to take back our country from the beans. We need to attack them and make them the 51st state. We'll start with their headquarters, Betos.

The Language Of Love: Apparently I Can't Speak It

I'm taking French. I'll come out in the open and admit it. For the most part, I excel in the class. But for some reason, when I try and put the words into speech, they instantly identify me as an American. And then I'll get flustered and thinking hard about not speaking in English, start to speak Chinese. This is why, partially, I will be examining the reasons for why French is so hard in order to overcome this problem. I will also be analyzing because of Sir Rich. I will attempt to enlighten my dogmatic "blue-black" paradigm to become a philosopher, a true student of Richism (+20 for "so good" use of Rich-y Words). I've compiled a list (French for "a couple of paragraphs) of reasons why French is so hard:

1. It is illegal to pronounce the last part of any word. For example, if the word "word" were a French word, it would be spelled "wordsupercalifragilisticexpialidocious." Obviously, this is not a very efficient way of spelling things. This is why the French do NOT lead the world in industrial strength. The only two products that the French are known for are made slowly; wine and cheese are both "aged."

2. However, when it comes to speaking, the French are VERY efficient. They slur words together, and sometimes use just the first letter of a word to combine two words into a pronunciation nightmare comparable to the H-Bomb. Though conspiracy buffs might make a conspiracy from this information (imagine that!), I will try and make a logical coherent argument for the reason: they don't want to spend time talking. Instead, it will be used for the national French pastime, namely, staring out café windows, forlornly smoking.

3. Feminine and masculine words. France is a nation where gender equality stands no chance. Marie-Ségolène Royal stands no chance in the French presidential election. They have "Le Président," not "La Présidente." In fact, the only thing they really seem to agree on is that both female and male sexists are "sexistes." That's ironic (+20 for insightful "commentary").

Well, there you have it. Three reasons. I chose three because for some reason, it confers automatic credibility, which is why teachers teach the five paragraph essay. Remember these three reasons if for any reason you ever attempt to learn French.

Unless you're French, that is. In that case, I think you guys are just fantasticpneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis!!!

The Microphone Mentality

Joe. As if that weren't a bad enough name for a bus driver, he had a microphone. Throughout band tour this week, I constantly wished that I had thought to bring earplugs. His lame jokes, bad enough as they were, penetrated my head, the sound waves creating fissures in my skull. It seemed impossible for this guy to use a microphone at a sensible volume. No, his weapons grade bad jokes exploded in the bus at upwards of a thousand decibels. But this isn't an isolated event. In all the music videos, band members practically eat the microphones. I'm not sure exactly why (bonus points for a semi colon); maybe they're trying to get their iron supplement. I find myself struggling to keep my mouth away from the microphone, and only do so by imagining the last guy who salivated all over it.

Why do people have to be so loud in microphones? It comes from a basic human desire to be bigger than they are. This really explains Americans. Just joking! Sort of! Not that kind of bigger! People seek to be louder, easier to notice, more likely to date a famous actor or actress, etc. This is why, when given a microphone, the average quiet, mildmannered person will suddenly be transformed into a banshee. This is what motivates people to do backflips, because the average person, though rational, will not scream, "You're suicidal!" They will scream, "Dude, you rock because you are willing to risk breaking your neck!" This is what motivates people to write blogs, in hopes that someone will comment, and make them feel loved, or at least sucked up to. This is why I'm ending this blog right now. Actually, it has nothing to do with ending the blog, but Im just really eager to go play guitar.

This Is A Long (Lawn) One

Spring. It's a wonderful time. A time to enjoy the good things of life. The cool breeze. The flowers. The sound of a lawn mower. There's always at least one person in a neighborhood who seems to think it's important to be mowing their lawn at seven a.m. on Saturday morning. What causes our obsession with lawns? Why do we cultivate a weed in uniformity in front of our houses? Why is that weed, when artificially hacked to a certain length, considered aesthetic? Why do we even care? Because analysis is the first step to getting full credit in English... I mean... the solution.

At one point in time, lawns were not the social norm. People had dirt in front of their homes, or might have planted useful plants. But in the 1800's, a certain Edwin Budding invented the lawn mower, presumably to cut his hair (needless to say, he did not look very good for a couple of months). By the early nineteen hundreds, the USDA and the US Golf Association were gathering in secret government labs to try and see who could spit a watermelon seed the farthest. Wait. I must have read Wikipedia wrong. I meant to say that they were trying to create the ultimate grass type. Naturally, they settled on marijuana. Just joking! Sort of! (You thought Bill Jeff-"erson" Clinton just talked that way cause of his accent) And thus began the modern obsession with lawns. Lawns now constitute the largest irrigated crop in the country, and they can't be eaten, or, usually, smoked!

Society praises those with the best lawns. Gunfights start on the basis of lawns (I once knew a guy who would fly out of his door and yell at us if we stepped on his lawn. He was probably about to shoot us. Naturally, we dared each other to touch it during the long summer days. Nothing like a little bit of blood to excite a boring 21st century day.). Lehi High (We're not sure if this is a reference to the perfect "grass" either) is going to get a new million dollar football field. Their school gets nothing. Why is this? Well, naturally, because the football field is covered in grass! We collectively spray billions of dollars worth of fertilizers and pesticides on our lawns. And then these get into the water supply, creating mutant frogs, which then get dumb books written about them, which get converted into boring documentaries, and, if someone really evil happens to be around, educational video games! Not to mention it probably, like pretty much everything and everyone else except for Al Gore, fosters global warming, which could be catastrophic, except for the fact that the temperature has only gone up .7 degrees Fahrenheit in the last century and a half.

Naturally, I don't approve of lawns. I mean, how could I possibly, considering the fact that the mowers wake me up on Saturday morning, and even force me outside to use one sometimes? It's disgusting that our society has become enslaved by a plant! I say we boycott lawns! I say we rip them out and put concrete in in their places! Or at the very least, huge trampolines! I say we end our slavery to our grass masters once and for all! I say I never have to mow the lawn again! I say no one mows their lawn ever again! So STOP WAKING ME UP ON SATURDAY MORNING!

Talking With My Peeps

Easter. It's a time when we can relax, remember the Savior, and eat ham. Luckily (If this word, in conjunction with the last sentence, and the sentence coming up offend you, please omit it), that's not all. Easter could also be called Peep Day. Peeps, those wonderful sugar coated marshmallows, really are a symbol of America. They combine the great American pastimes: (Mr. Rich, I get extra points for use of a colon, right?) eating, commercialism, sugar and fat into one lovely animal shaped food. Everyone loves Peeps. Those who don't are Commies. Unless you're a person who doesn't like Peeps whose name also happens to be Sir Rich. Then you are "Captain, my Captain."

Why are Peeps so great anyways? It has to be the nostalgic feel we get from them. Peeps, a simplistic name for a product, appeal to rural values of times gone by in this world where products are named after puns, fictional people, and "futuristic" made up words. Their shapes, ducks and bunnies, remind us of a time when the times we saw these animals were not limited only to their crude representations on foods (and as mascots). Then we swallow them.

BEEP!!! THIS IS A TEST OF THE EMERGENCY PUBLIC BROADCASTING SYSTEM. Please phoneticize that sound it makes for me.

That other paragraph gave sappy reasons for why people like Peeps. The type of answers you might expect a Congressman or some other public image caring person might give. No, if you want to see the real reason people like Peeps, maybe you should see one of those congresspeople on Peeps (Howard Dean). Yes, Peeps are a safe clean alternative to traditional drugs, where you could get a bad batch and die. We don't get "Taco Bell Situations" with Peeps. No rats went into the making of your Peeps. So relax, sit back and take a bite of your Peep. But make sure you finish reading this first, because you won't be in a position to read after the sugar hits your system. You'll be out making speeches like Howard Dean's "I Have A Scream" speech (joke found on Wikipedia, I refuse to plagiarize something as great as Wikipedia). But for now, we're not only going to eat dinner, we're going to do homework, and then we're going to Rich's room to take our lives back! BYAAH!!!

Separation Of Church And State

This week, as I walked to the Seminary building, I noticed that there was caution tape parallel to the sidewalk that leads to the building. Caution tape is very hard not to notice, as we discovered when Kyler proposed that one of the candidates in the school election use it as a rallying force by distributing it throughout the school (I got some, and wrote "Asian" after every "Caution" on the tape to make the ultimate belt.). Anyways, I suspected that there must be some reason aside from the obvious aesthetic ones for putting the caution tape up. I talked to some informed people, who told me (so blame them if this is wrong) that the tape delineates the site of a wall. That will eventually be built. Unless it is built the same way that road construction is done in this city. In that case, random rocks will be dropped between the tape, and after three months, cleared away and replaced with a real wall.

But this wall will be more than just concrete. It will be an idea. A palpable victory for separation of church and state. A symbol that, by golly (I have NO idea what a "golly" is), this is America, where the phrase "under God" only appears in the Pledge of Allegiance because we want to be better than someone else, namely, the godless Commies. Our money proclaims, "In God We Trust," but prayer is banned from schools, and Darwinism has out evolved Intelligent Design, with natural selection favoring "The Origin Of Species" for the niche of "the lecture you will sleep through in Biology class."

So naturally, we will build a wall between the teacher parking lot and the Seminary building. Obviously, with the school population primarily LDS, and the minority so used to being in LDS-land that they don't even think to object, we must protect those who might be illegally parking in that lot from being offended at the sight of a building that looks like any other building except for small lettering that says "The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints". I personally applaud this crusade, proudly nominating it for "the stupidest use of money ever" award. I love separation of church and state, and could talk about it for hours, except I'm out of time, and have to go watch the LDS General Conference.

Seeing In A New Light Through Glasses

I was going to write a horribly mean blog about one of the leaders in my ward. Then I remembered that maybe that wouldn't exactly be Christlike. Then I remembered that remembering that wasn't exactly characteristic of myself. Then I forgot what I was going to write about in the first place. Maybe it was a "stupor of thought," if you catch my drift. So I guess I'll just write about some random thing that happened to me, and then try to pull it together in an "analytical" fashion, for full points.

Yesterday, I had a Mock Trial competition. President Ludwig, obviously a born lawyer (liar), brought his reading glasses along, not because he needed help reading, but because they would make him look smarter. And they did. The aura of distinction that emanated from his person was almost so great that I was almost too distracted to humiliate the poor lawyer who tried to cross examine me. Why? Why do glasses automatically seem to confer a sense of respectability and intelligence? That is the question that I will be "analyzing" this week, but first, a word from our sponsors.

"Mark! Get your little rear end in here and knead this dough!"

I'm back. Glasses lend respectability because they are stereotypically worn by the elderly. Find me a comic strip that has an old person not wearing glasses, and I'll punch you in the face. And naturally, we have come to respect the elderly, because of their wisdom, and their ability to have been better than you at anything in their prime. Some examples of respectable elderly people are: Oprah, George Clooney, George "The Older One" Bush, and John the Beloved. Unfortunately, none of these people wear glasses. However, since stereotypical aged members of society wear glasses, the glasses confer their characteristics upon the wearer.

Glasses also make you smarter. Putting them on automatically adds thirty to your IQ. It's a proven fact, according to a survey done by ASMUS (American Society for Made Up Surveys). That's why I wear contacts; to level the playing field. Glasses probably work like a placebo, and you're probably being tricked into thinking that you're smarter, rather than just looking like a bigger nerd. So wear glasses! Let's bring back those humongous ones from times before I was born! I'm sure they contributed directly to the American victory in the Cold War. Let's pray for a rebirth in Americans wearing glasses! They'll help to make sure that No Child Gets Left Behind. And then we won't have to write blogs to reinforce our writing abilities.

An Intelligent Discussion On The Subject Of Crickets

This week, for Mutual, I had the experience of playing cricket. "What is cricket?" I asked myself. All I knew was that it was some sport over in Britain, and I had only ever heard of it in old English books. They never mention exactly what the game is, or maybe I just wasn't paying very good attention while sleeping through the book. So basically, in going to the activity, all I really knew was that cricket was not a game where you try and stuff the most bugs in your mouth.

Turns out, cricket starts when a person "bowls" (translation: throws) the ball towards the batter, who tries to protect what looks like the top of a hammer on sticks by trying to hit the ball, and, if successful, runs back and forth from the hammer to a base, and then back, scoring points. "Sounds easy enough," you're saying to yourself. If you did talk to yourself, maybe you should check out some mental help. And I have a rebuttal. These ball are rocks. Not literally, but they sure felt like it. These were the type of things that you would rather not hit some part of your body, causing internal bleeding. And yet the guys who taught us to play, who were Indians (literal Indians, mind you, the type of people who might answer your questions when you call a computer help hotline, not to mention being Asian), were running around catching the balls barehanded, despite the fact that the balls were leaving craters in the field upon landing. I got up to bat, thinking it would all be fun and games, but when the first "bowl" went by, I think my underwear was about as wet as my swim suit is after practice. "How does it feel to have a rock flying at you at upwards of the speed of light?" you might ask. Not good. Thank goodness this "Casey" struck out at the bat alive.

So why hasn't this game caught on in America? Well, as an American people, we've exceeded cricket. We have our own batting and base running game with rock hard balls that would go through you if you came in contact with them. Yes, the great American pastime, baseball, has surpassed anything that the British could ever come up with, mostly because you're allowed to dump the peanut shells on the ground when you're watching the game. It's what truly makes our country great.

As a side note, at the activity, I also had the opportunity to try a "chocolate cricket." "If I eat this, will I be able to work it into a blog somehow?" I asked President Ludwig. "Probably," he answered, probably more intent on watching me gag than me getting full credit in English. So, I grabbed one of the ugly chocolate blobs and lowered it into my mouth. "Mmm... I'm gonna eat this gross disgusting bug," I declared, hoping to collect some comments of how manly I was. None came. Closing my eyes, I inched closer to my mouth. I put it into my mouth and chewed. Nothing happened. It was the anticlimax of the century (though the century is still young). I mean, all it tasted like was bad chocolate. It tasted a lot like the worthless chocolate you get at church functions during the Easter Egg Hunt, i.e., old chocolate. So next time dares you to eat one of those, don't do it. Just go and get out your old Easter Egg chocolate. Cause that's just as good, and a poor little cricket didn't have to give up its life for the chocolate.

Pilates: Don't Ever Read This One, Cause It's Not Funny

This week, after my morning swim practices, I had the opportunity to participate in Pilates. It's weird stuff. As I laid with my arms stretched out, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, and angelic music playing, it was hard to believe that I was actually there. I pinched myself, but I didn't wake up. So I decided to write a blog about it instead (it sure seemed like a logical train of thought to me...). Only, I'm not sure what the blog will be about, but I know that it will be about Pilates. So hang on to your hats, and enjoy the ride.

First, a little bit of historical info on the exercise method. It was created in the early 20th century by a certain Joseph Pilates. Hence, the name, Pilates. It focuses on core strength, and the control of the mind over the body. The Chinese invented Tai Chi first, and Tai Chi sounds cooler than "Pilates." "Tai Chi" sounds like some sort of exotic tiger. "Pilates" sounds like some sort of exotic fashion designer. So there. Asian supremacy.

So why is Pilates so popular? Well, I gained a little bit of insight into that as I did it. My friends and I, all accustomed to regular "work outs" (drowning), had absolutely no problem with "advanced" techniques. It's an easy work out (not drowning), and is possible for just about anyone. Also, the music is really quiet, and the old people give you dirty glares if you talk, so the environment is almost silent. The quiet, contemplative environment really allowed me to stop and slow down to think about just how much I really needed to figure out a clever way to end this blog. Maybe, I'll just end it the way they end the Pilates class. Take a deep breath in through your nose... and exhale it out through your mouth, exhaling through the motion required to push the little "X" in the upper left hand corner of the window.

Dr. WHO?!!

Today (Friday, not Sunday at 1:43), my little sister got to bring a pillow, a blanket, and snacks to school. I got to drive to swim practice at five in the morning through the snow. What was the cause for such a large difference in our experience? Well, I'll tell you, because it's possible that someone might possibly know that today is Dr. Seuss's birthday. Now, what I want to know is why all the kids at Orem Elementary were celebrating this guy. I mean, he was rich when he was alive, what more does he want?

Not much is really known about the actual life of Dr. Seuss. As such, I will elaborate on his life, making him seem as sinister as possible. First, Dr. Suess really doesn't have the last name "Seuss." He was actually Theodor Seuss Geisel, and wasn't even a doctor. As if this deception wasn't enough, he often wrote under the pen name Theo Lesieg, which is "Geisel" backwards, showing an affinity for codes and secretive spy work. His name wasn't even pronounced the way we pronounce it. It rhymes with "voice," not "juice."

So what led to the success of the secretive mystery man? Well, thanks to what I call the Seuss Formula, which will be described, he rose to the top of the nonsensical rhyme industry. The parts of the Formula are as follows:
1) Use of rhyme. When rhyming is not possible, or might take too much thought, replace first letter of the other word with a different consonant, creating some new creature (what exactly is a "sneetch"?).
2) Use of weird pictures. Often, different creatures with different names like "grinch" or a "Sam-I-Am" look almost exactly the same, except with different colors.
3) Some sort of moral of the story. This adds to the "parents buy this for your kids so they can learn how to survive in the modern world of moral apathy" value of the book.

There you have it. Just follow the formula, and you too can become a famous "doctor" writing nonsense for millions. Happy Geisel Day!

Don't Give Me Any Of That Garbage

The garbageman. Ridiculed, mocked, and scorned, he is the example everyone uses of a low paying, low skill, low awesome job. "Don't drop out of school or you'll end up a garbageman," chides Society. "Stop personifying," you mutter at Society. Then you realize that there is something terribly weird, something that doesn't make any sense in this universe, something that leaves a bad aftertaste in your mouth in that last sentence. So you push "Enter" and make a new paragraph to get as much distance from it as possible... er... I push "Enter", because I'm writing this blog...

Whoa! I must have been "high" (as opposed to "goodbye") on some illegal substance when I was writing that last paragraph. Readers who managed to hang on to that rodeo ride of random (alliteration, bonus points, King Rich!) will now be treated to awesome analysis (dos bonus points).

Despite being ridiculed, garbagemen never the less (never the more, either) hold the real power in society. They rule the peace of mind of society with an iron fist ("Don't make me squeeze, Society..."). This was evident this last week on Sunday. The next day was not only garbage pickup day, but also President's Day. Thus, we were afflicted with the problem of whether or not to take out the trash, as the garbageman might not have come the next day. Eventually, we decided that it was better to be safe than sorry, so we put the can out. Now, as the glimmer of "getting it" (dos plus one bonus points!) begins to shine through a metaphorical fog of freakiness (dos plus dos bonus points!), I will turn the metaphorical lights of liberty out on the reader and send them on another rollercoaster ride of randomness. Or maybe I'll just finish the blog so I can stop this alliteration rampage (action). So anyways, we need to take the power to infringe upon our peace of mind away from garbagemen, and give it to someone more responsible. I do not suggest politicians, because they are not responsible. I do, however, support giving it to me, even though I have to power to infringe upon peace of mind through these blogs.

So Analytical It's Not Funny

People think I'm funny. I'm not trying to brag. I'm just stating a rule of nature, like the law of nature that Donald Trump's hair has got to be the ugliest thing alive (yes, alive). Some people probably thought that was funny. But just think. If President Bush had said that, no one would laugh. Well, maybe they would, but just because of his accent. I'll say things that aren't really all that funny, but people still think it's funny. It's the same way for my good friend the President. It generally goes something like this.

Me: My dog died.

Them: HAHA!!!

Me: No, really.

It gets kind of tedious sometimes. Ok. So I'll stop trying to pretend like I don't enjoy the attention. People like me like attention like Micheal Jackson likes plastic surgery... Bad comparison, but still! Why do people think that stuff that I say is funny? Well, it's really all about where the "funny" is coming from. For example, I can say something absurd, and people will laugh. President Ludwig (Vote Ludwig 2028 "Tippecanoe and Kyler too!") can say something even more bizarre, and he'll get laughs that I wouldn't have. That's the reason. That's my analysis. Now that I've got those three sentences out, I can slide back into absurdity. I'll keep going. Alright. I'm done being absurd and trying to convince people that this blog is going to continue. Back to reality. A reality where I'm not so desperate for a subject that I'll try to be funny about why I'm funny. A reality without "analysis."

Asian Supremacy

Yesterday, I went to a stake service project. There, I was forced to stuff little fleece balls full of batting for about two hours. I soon came to realize that my brothers and I were much more adept at this than the others. It got me thinking, is there some sort of reason for this? The answer is yes. Genetics. You see, the Asian sweatshop genes just happen to be in my genetic code. My body automatically makes a protein that fosters quick reflexes and movements, making me the ultimate factory worker. Why else was the Chinese Exclusion Act passed in the 1800's if not to protect inferior Americans from being displaced by superior Chinese labor?

In case you haven't guessed, this week's topic is Asian Supremacy. The days of white supremacy and the Aryan race are gone. Today's perfect race is Asian. This is manifest in the number of people desperately irradiating themselves to be a color that we Asians naturally happen to be. It is manifest in the number of Asians who do better than others in schools. But this is not to say that Asians are without fault. We do have squinty eyes, but who knows? That could become as fashionable as being tan. Besides, squinty eyes look really good when making an evil face.

In the event that inferior whites attempt to fight back, they will be eliminated. For starters, while English may be an intelligible mass of contradicting spelling rules, Asian languages are intelligible masses of squiggly lines, and are impossible to pronounce. Up until this date, I have only ever met one person who is able to say my Chinese name correctly, and he is the future President, and also has awesome eyes, so he's practically an Asian brother. In fact, he has demonstrated his amazing Asian sweatshop skills on many an occasion. However, even if the languages are decoded and understood, no one is a match for the Asian powers of karate. People should have watched enough Jackie Chan and Jet Li movies to know that we are unbeatable. They should have realized our powers of flight from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Lastly, they should have realized our ability to write blogs for credit in English class from reading mine.

Seniors: Better Or Not?

The Spirit Bowl. The ultimate expression of school spirit and loyalty. Quite frankly, I think it's lame. But what really gets me under the collar (and I hate collared shirts), is that the seniors always win. I mean, all they said, after an hour of stupid rigged wrestling between girls, body painting of scrawny guys, obnoxious cheering, guys kissing girls with mouths full of cereal, and other drug induced stupidity, was that the seniors won. They didn't even announce how many points the seniors won by. They probably won by "how ever many it takes" points. But I don't question the validity of the ruling. After all, Sir Rich was judging (and endorsing Dr. Pepper with his shirt). Not to mention he's judging this blog. So the question this week comes in two (dos) parts (prongs): 1) Why do seniors think they're better, and 2 (dos)) why the administration made them win.

So why do seniors always have to assert their dominance of other classes? It's obviously like some obscure form of racism, called classism. This "classism" is going so far that soon there will be a KKK of classism. I'm absolutely sure of it. And they will burn big MV's into our yards. They think that because they're almost done with school, they can all be jerks. I realize that I commit the "Hasty Generalization" logical fallacy when I say this, and some seniors are good, like which ever ones are reading this blog, the ones that I love with all my heart, and anything else that will keep me from getting beaten up by a bunch of big fat burly guys. Not that all seniors are big fat burly guys either. Some of them are girls.

Now, the second (dos) part of my question comes in the form of a conspiracy theory. Now, I'm not one of those crazy fanatics who think that Rosie O'Donnell is a cow (though the resemblance is shocking), but I do believe that the administration gave the seniors the win in the Spirit Bowl. I am not implicating Sir Rich in any clandestine plot. I'm sure that he was not a party to it, but actually was forced into it, because Principal Clark kidnapped his copy of "East Of Eden" and held a pair of scissors against it. Sir Rich is, in my book, totally innocent of any wrongdoing unless he minuses my points on this assignment. Why would the administration just give the seniors the win (and the ugly trophy?)? I personally think it was an attempt to foster a feeling of school spirit, and combat senioritis (literally, an inflammation of the senior). And I'll admit that because of this, I really can't wait to become a senior. The world on a silver platter. All for me. But right now, I have to go put out that burning MV in my yard.

Civil Engineering: A Good Waste Of Money

This week, I had to go to Mutual. I mean, I had the opportunity to go, because we got to listen to a civil engineer talk about Katrina for an hour and half. I'll admit that nothing could have topped off watching 150 white slides, with a couple of pictures on them. Sir Clark (aka Sir Awesome, King of the Universe, One of the Three Nephites, and Mark And Kyler's Role Model Forever) does a much better job of narrating such slide shows ("Now, we don't usually build houses on top of cars..."), and his even have RED slides, and the occasional picture of a DINOSAUR. Needless to say, soon "Dirty Little Secret" Card was texting "...---...". Wait. That was the telegraph. I meant to say that he was texting, "Save Me" to everyone he knew. Then President Ludwig threw my shoe.

But that doesn't mean that the activity was totally without interesting parts. After he got done telling us that houses float for the 200th time, the civil engineer told us stories wherein he managed to lose 2 "moles," heavy drill bit like pieces of equiptment worth five million. Then he went on to tell us that civil engineers don't make much money. Well I wonder why? Maybe it's because they're too busy losing millions of taxpayer dollars to make any for themselves. This really gets my goose (so give it back!). Why in the world does the government do such stupid things? Why do they waste our money? Probably because they wouldn't know what to do if the federal debt wasn't increasing. Afterall, credit (debt) is the sign of real economics. At least that's what the world tells us. It really doesn't make much sense, but neither does the government. Or maybe they're trying to make our lives better. It's an odd twist on the idea of the government, but I think it might be true. Here's another example of the government trying to make our lives better and just wasting our money:

No Child Left Behind. The idea of this is basically that the government spends taxpayer money to make sure that kids who would normally drop out and be supported by welfare will take tests and maintain a specific level of proficiency, so they can drop out and be supported by welfare. Obviously, it's phenominally successful. It's implementer, George "Walker, Texas Ranger" Bush stated recently that he wasn't a "lame duck." Well, obviously, No Child Left Behind is doing a great job with him too, cause he understands that he's not a duck, despite having weird looking lips that kind of look like it.

Well, I'm done. I'm going. And I can't think of some sort of witty way to end it, so I guess I'll end it with a "call to arms." (everyone get your arm and hold it in your other arm...) We need to take a stand against stupid ways of spending taxpayer money! We need to do something about this! I propose that someone else do the writing, cause I would probably just write, "...---..." cause I'm done writing this blog.

Time To Blog

For decades, people have written stories about how eventually machines will take over the world and rule all humans. It's already happened. Yes, we've already all been enslaved by clocks. Society is dictated by the whims of tiny little machines that display numbers or "Roman Numerals" (which, as far as I can tell, have nothing to do with Romans, not even pictures of them). A perfect example of this is alarm clocks. Alarm clocks are these malevolent little things that like to beep when you don't want them to. They are evil. They love to make you wake up in the early morning, when no one should be up, when it's cold outside, or when it's dark outside. Imagine just how great our society would be if we didn't let the jerks wake us up, and just slept as late as possible! Sure, we'd be unproductive and lazy, but who cares? The rest of the world already thinks we are. A couple more hours of sleep would be well worth an image we already have.

So why are we slaves to time? Perhaps it's part of man's constant search for order and organization. Because deep down inside, we are all OCD. Without exception. Unless your name is Mr. Rich, and having OCD could possibly affect my grade. This leads to tons of discrimination. Societal norms dictate sleeping at night. Those who don't are labelled as "insomniacs." Society dictates that we are in class on time at obscure times like 10:43 and 26 seconds. Those who fail to conform are penalized. This really shows some sort of conspiracy. Obviously, those who are high in society have made some sort of deal with time. My guess is that they force everyone to obey clocks in return for the alarm clocks not harassing them.

This slavery has been going on since Biblical times. Ecc. 3 states that there is "a time to every purpose under the heaven." Those clocks sure are ambitious. Not simply content to dictating human lives, they want to control everything "under the heaven". We need to take action! We need to stand up for our rights! We need to push the snooze button! I have a lot more to say, but it's time for me to go.

Happy End Of The Term Eve!

Yes, it's that time of the year again. I call it End Of The Term Eve. A time when we have the opportunity to sit back and contemplate just how much the term happened to be no fun at all. A time to right wrongs in the form of bad grades. A time of friendship, when the parents of the "A" students yell at teachers. A time to get everything in, including blogs. My only regret is that I will be unable to date this blog into the future on Sunday at 1:43 PM, because Lord Rich might possibly fail to notice that comments on the blog are dated, technically, before the blog ever existed.

I will now examine the Term End Neurosis that so often accompanies the term end, namely what the French call poisson du ciel (literally "wailing and gnashing of teeth"). As the acronym (TEN) suggests, it could also stand for Tortuous English Neurosis, and be explained through ten different answers. Wait. That can't possibly be correct. No way in the world would I accept an acronym that would force me to work. Instead, I will analyze the "term is Over syNdromE."

What could cause responsible (responsible, my eye!) students to procrastinate? I think the reason lays in the fact that, and I think I speak for all Americans when I say this, homework is about as much fun as reading Moby Dick. Especially when the homework IS reading Moby Dick. In fact, the homework usually has about as much significance as Moby Dick, except that Moby Dick might have more practical application in the real world than homework. This is because I find it much more likely that I will become an obsessed, fury filled sailor bent on killing a whale, than ever becoming someone who has to use the Fundemental Theorem Of Calculus (who's fundementality should really be taken into question, like question in the form of the Inquisition) in a real life situation that does not involve boring hobbies. And so, homework haters everywhere refuse to do it until the last possible moment that they might. I think I'll restate it in bold letters, and in caps, so King Rich can have an easy time finding the poisson qui a fumé un ordinateur (literally, "important part of the blog"). END OF TERM SYNDROME IS CAUSED BECAUSE STUDENTS DON'T LIKE TO DO HOMEWORK UNTIL THE LAST POSSIBLE SECOND. Now I should probably post this before my last second is up.

Study: Fried Rice "The Stuff Of Legends"

Fried rice is like the culinary Sistine Chapel. It may even rival Micheal "Angelo" Buonarroti's work on that ceiling (yeah, he didn't build the chapel, he just graffitied the ceiling). Well, actually it definitely rates higher with me, mostly because you can eat fried rice, unlike naked Biblical people. I base this statement off a study of people who have the user name "Chlorine Addict." The study concluded that "fried rice is the ultimate expression of human creativity."

Main researcher Chlorine Addict stated, "Something about fried rice just calls upon the common man to add whatever he might want to. It's the stuff of legends!"

"I put in all sorts of meats: bacon, ham, hamburger, sausage, etc. The veggie is variable too! But the egg, that's static. There always has to be egg," exclaimed fried rice enthusiast Chlorine Addict.

What makes the way of the fried rice (Way Of The Rice sounds like a cheap karate movie) so appealing? Perhaps it's because as stated, almost anything can be put in it. There are thousands of possible permutations! This could potentially save millions of college students from "pizza fever," by making it possible to cook the same meal without ever, technically, cooking the same meal. Perhaps the popularity comes from the fact that preparation takes so little time. Maybe it's because it takes the intelligence that General George Armstrong Custer displayed in the Battle Of Little Big Horn (equivalent to the intelligence of the average fly, except in Argentina) to prepare it. For Chlorine Addict, dashing, handsome, courageous, intelligent superhero, "it's a good breakfast food. Especially when Mom hasn't picked up any other breakfast foods for a while. You can just take whatever's in the fridge." Not only does the description of that superhero sound like me, he also seems to have the attraction of fried rice correct!

Other fried rice related comments that I wasn't able to work into this blog, that I swear are absolutely true and not made up, unless I happen to be on trial for libel or slander:

-During his presidency, President William "Bill" Clinton was seen numerous times in his office late at night with a bowl of fried rice that was NOT his wife.

-President George "Weedwhacker" Bush stated, "Sometimes I have a nice bowl of fried rice to relieve the stress of fighting the Axis (a 23.5 degree tilt) of Evil."

-Rush Limbaugh admitted having an addiction to prescription fried rice.

-Nancy Pelosi declared that, "fried rice is the reason we won the House and the Senate."

-BYU Football Quarterback John Beck consumed a bowl of fried rice before the big bowl game against the Oregon "Ducks." The meat in the rice was, needless to say, duck.