I Am Legend

No. I haven't seen it. I swear I get a "Have you seen I Am Legend?" more than I get normal comments, like, "Hi," or "Death to Hillary!" It's getting to be quite a problem. In fact, as I'm writing this, someone has just Instant Messengered me and asked if I have seen I Am Legend.

I Am Legend. There's no getting around the fact. I see frightening parallelisms between my own life, and Will Smith's acting. In the movie, a virus supposedly turns everyone on the Earth except Will Smith (because he has excellent writers) into zombies who then attack said actor. Or they turn into corpses. Incidentally, this movie is turning everyone on the Earth into a zombie who is forced to attack me with the question, "Have you seen I Am Legend?" And about the corpses, I'm sure someone's had an epileptic seizure while watching the movie.

From the plot of the movie, I can see that I will soon be the only living man on Earth who has not seen the movie. The only thing I can't see mimicking the movie is the dog. Sorry, I'm pretty sure if I was the last man alive, I sure wouldn't be talking to my dog for moral support. I would be eating it for nutritional support.

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!!!