Ten Things to Hate About Me

There are only ten things you need to know about me;

1) I dislike dolphins. They are dumb, no matter what some hippie says. But they taste good on a sandwich.

2) I often use "dude" (and sometimes "guy") unisexually.

3) Jeff Dunham is not funny. Dane Cook is unfunny.

4) I had (have) a crush on the Pink Ranger, Amy Jo Johnson. She was my first real crush (I had a prior crush on the animated version of April O'Neil, but that hardly counts). After that, it was (is) probably Tiffani Thiessen/Kelly Kapowski.

5) I hate doctor/cop shows. They are all the same Dr. CSI garbage. The most original shows on television are those that mock existing shows, i.e. NTSF:SD:SUV::, Childrens Hospital, and the upcoming The Heart, She Holler.

6) I love movies, good and bad. But I have a hard time watching movies once they've been hyped up. Once they become too popular, if I still haven't seen it, I don't want to see it, because I've already heard all about it. As such, I refuse to watch Avatar or Inception.

7) Through excessive use of sarcasm and anti-humor, people sometimes don't know whether I'm serious or kidding. But although I'm sarcastic, I am also blunt. If you have an ugly baby, I might not tell you it's ugly, but I won't tell you it's cute.

8) I love writing. I hope to one day write and publish novels. I know I have mentioned this a few times in the past, but I'm telling you everything you need to know. So get off my back.

9) Urban Dictionary sums Brent up best as "A male who, at first glance, seems to be a douchebag, but upon further study will turn out to have a heart of gold."

10) I can be quite indecisive, but I am very opinionated. Although I claim to be speaking the truth, I believe nobody really knows "the whole truth," they just see things differently. Call it subjectivity.

Also, I make a mean sandwich. So, I guess that's eleven things. My bad.

Hijacking the Batmobile

Back in high school, I never really had a "clique." I never fit in with any certain group of kids. I loitered with the rockers. I made fun of the punks. I daydreamed of cheerleaders. I was on good terms, if nothing else, with the jocks (at least the wrestlers and some of the football players; I thought the basketball team were jerks and the baseball team was cocky). But at lunch, I always sat with the geeks. And although I didn't watch anime and I've never been tech-savvy (it's by the grace of God that I can actually operate a computer, insomuch as turning on, blogging, and turning it off), I feel this is the group with which I mix best. It's time to claim my rightful position amongst the geek population. I know that's a position that has to be earned, but I believe I'm qualified. Besides looking the part (sorry, if I don't fit the bronzed, chiseled specimen you were hoping for, ladies - assuming there are any females in the audience), here are some of my credentials;

(this is what I would look like with a beard)

1) I'm a comic book geek. But I don't care so much for Batman or Spiderman as I do for some of their seedier counterparts, i.e. Usagi Yojimbo (a rabbit samurai), the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (trust me, the comic books are way better than the cartoons or the movies), Amalgam Comics (an amalgamation of the DC and Marvel universes; clever, right?), and Deadpool (please disregard the version portrayed by Ryan Reynolds in X-Men Origins; the "real" Deadpool is like a demented, sarcastic, masked version of The Punisher).

2) I'm a Star Wars geek. That's not to say I know every nook and cranny and obscure character in the saga (especially taking into consideration there are many novelizations thereof which are considered canonical). But don't let that put you off. Let me put it this way; I could write a thesis on the complexity of relationships using the characters from Star Wars. That being said, I think the prequels could have sucked considerably less if Qui-Gon Jinn had just let Jar Jar Binks die.

3) I am movie geek. My love of movies extends far beyond a galaxy far, far away. I tend to be the guy people look to if they're trying to remember who played who in what movie (Q: Who's the guy that auditioned to sing at Drew Barrymore's wedding in The Wedding Singer? Jon Lovitz). And I like good movies; I've seen Casablanca and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and a number of other classics. But I love bad movies. Not so much the movies that try to be good and end up bad, but the ones you know are going to be awful from the get-go, i.e. old Japanese monster movies, '50s science fiction, low-budget horror films (esp. from the '80s), and any Syfy original movie.

4) I am a philosophy geek. Increasingly often, I find myself trying to categorize people into branches philosophy. For example, Emperor Palpatine is clearly a Machiavellian realist, whereas Han Solo appears to be more of a pragmatic skeptic. I consider myself a postmodern transcendental idealist. Only a geek could be that obsessive over social theory.

5) I am a documentary geek. I often find myself drawn into documentaries on the History Channel or the Travel Channel or, more often than not, the Food Network. Aside from casually watching them on television, there are documentaries I actively seek out, particularly those about serial killers, the Soviet Union (I've recently developed an obsession with Communism; weird, I know), or Nazi occultism. While we're on the subject, what is with America's obsession with Nazism? It seems that the only thing they play on the History Channel is crap about Hitler. Don't get me wrong. I like playing video games, killing Nazi Zombies as much as anyone (probably more so). And I enjoy the occasional campy Nazi-related movie. But can't we do something about Commie Zombies? Somebody should look into that. Get on it, fellow geeks!

Duality of Man

The following conversation is dialogue from the movie Full Metal Jacket.

Pogue Colonel: You write "Born to Kill" on your helmet and you wear a peace button. What's that supposed to be, some kind of sick joke?
Private Joker: No, sir.
Colonel: You'd better get your head and your ass wired together.
Joker: Yes, sir.
Colonel: Now answer my question or you'll be standing tall before the man.
Joker: I think I was trying to suggest something about the duality of man, sir.
Colonel: The what?
Joker: The duality of man. The Jungian thing, sir.

The duality of man refers to the two opposing sides of human nature (i.e. good and evil). Everyone is bit of both. "Good people" can do "bad" things and "bad people" are capable of doing "good" things.

Clearly, human nature is very contradictory.

This particularly clear in the practice of government and politics. That's why the Tea Party can protest "big government" regulation while using government subsidies such as welfare, social security, and medicaid. This is why the Occupy Wall Street protestors riot against corporations while eating McDonald's and using their mobile phones (way to stick it to the man, fellas). Maybe you're saying, "You just don't get it." No. I get it. And I'm explaining it to you.

You first, Tea Party. I support what they call "small government," but I understand the necessity of government regulation. Public schools? The postal service? Police officers and fire fighters? All part of government funding.

Now I'm looking at you OWS. I am a capitalist. I am pro-corporations. I think somebody who contributes something to society and works his way to the top deserves recompense. I don't support greed. It's beyond ridiculous that the top 1% control 42% of financial wealth. I think all this calls for is reformation. Not a revolution. Immediate debt forgiveness and guaranteed wages for the unemployed are not the solution. They're just going to make the financial situation worse. And I don't trust any group that includes socialists, anarchists, hippies, and Geraldo Rivera.

In my unbiased opinion, with so much friendly fire, life can get pretty ugly. But that's old news.

See what I did there? I used oxymoron, a figure of speech which combines contradictory terms. How clever of me.

So why the confrontation? Can't we just admit that we're all confused?

(derp!)

I am a man of contradictions. I like my hot dogs burnt and my steak rare.

(Aaron Eckhart knows what I'm talking about)

All Hallow This!

October 13, 2011 - Day 13 of the Five Dollar Foot Long Epidemic. The zombies (customers, for those who don't understand subtlety) just keep coming. They crave cheap food and they won't be satisfied until they get it. Their numbers grow larger every day. They have begun to multiply and mutate. I have identified some of these infected (as plagiarized from Left 4 Dead);

1) The Tank - Generally physically fit (or at least not obese) zombies who buy into Subway's "health food" facade. They opt for "healthy" sandwiches. They fool themselves into thinking that they're eating well, when any uninfected person would be a bit skeptical after seeing my chubby butt is the one serving them.

2) The Boomer - A bloated zombie who doesn't kid himself/herself with the "health food" nonsense. They want the Chicken Bacon Ranch, and they want it with extra ranch. The term "boomer" comes from the fact that they eat until they explode, and somehow inevitably end up attracting more zombies.

3) The Hunter - An agile zombie that pounces and seizes the opportunity to buy five dollar foot longs by buying them in bulk.

4) The Witch - A passive zombie that will become aggressive and start screaming when you make a simple mistake on their sandwich or leave them waiting for too long or if you're out of Italian Herbs and Cheese bread.

Honestly, it seems appropriate that Five Dollar Foot Long Month should land on an October. As the children anticipate going door-to-door asking people for free candy, so the adults among them anticipate harassing the local Subway.

I am not a big fan of Halloween, myself. I hold no grudge against candy (clearly not), but I don't like it any more on Halloween than I do any other day of the year. And I can certainly appreciate the creativity some people put into it. I know of a married couple who have come up with some very clever costumes. One year she was Michael Jackson (albeit a very pretty one) and he was a 12-year old boy (this was before Jacko died, so it wasn't untimely). The next year he went as Barack Obama (in full blackface) and she went as Sarah Palin. One of my brothers and his wife went as a Ghostbuster and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man respectively. You see, I like that. That's creative. But for most people, it's just an excuse to dress up as whores. I don't think they make non-skanky women's costumes anymore. Sexy pirates, sexy nurses, sexy angels - hell, I wouldn't be surprised to find out they have a sexy Amish girl costume available. I don't want to sound like a prude, it's just that I find inventive costumes more impressive than themed prostitute outfits. Besides, like candy, I don't like pretty girls any more on Halloween than I do any other time of year. And then there are the teenagers who go Trick-or-Treating, most of them dressed as slack-off losers (i.e. themselves). Don't you guys realize you're literally taking candy from children? Don't you have some underage drinking to do?

(I only wish I could pull something as scary as this off*)

Halloween, or "All-Hallow's-Eve," originates from the ancient Roman holiday of Parentalia, which is held in honor of deceased relatives and ancestors, and the Celtic harvest festival of Samhain. Dead people and harvesting foods, mixed with a little modern commercialism. This sounds great for marketing! Even with the condescending, often puritanical theology dictating our country, nobody embraces paganism quite like America. I'm looking at you, Christmas! But that's another story for another day...

(prepare yourselves)

*If Mike Tyson ever happens to read this (no matter how unlikely that may be), allow me to say I was only kidding. You are a boxing legend and you seem like a pretty cool guy. Please don't hurt me.

If You're Working Right, It'll Be Like You're Not Even Working at All

Throughout my years in the K-12 public schooling program, people used to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and the the answer was always the same; I don't know. And as I've gotten older, wiser, and more mature, my answer has become even more blunt; "I doubt I'm going to grow up any more."

There are basically to trains of thought; do what you love and do what is practical. It is my goal today to disprove both of them.

If I were to do what I loved for a living, I would be;

1) a political cartoonist/political commentator

2) a radio show host/talk show host

3) a writer

4) a film critic

5) a dinosaur

I know what you're thinking; "But, jinkies, Scoob, that doesn't sound too bad!" Maybe not, but I'm not sure how to go about doing any of that. Not everyone can be a Thomas Nast or a Johnny Carson or a Michael Crichton or a Roger Ebert. And I would probably make a better dinosaur than any of the other things on that list. I already kind of resemble Earl Sinclair.

If I were to do what was practical, well, let's just say college would still be an option. But seeing how it's not currently an option, I have a hard time seeing practicality in anything. I could stay at Subway, but that hardly seems practical. And therein lies the issue. Not everybody is going to be rich and successful. Some of us are going to be the guys who make burgers or shine shoes for the rich. There's no shame in that; it's necessary in capitalism. But I don't believe I'm destined to be a burger flipper, partially because I don't believe in destiny, but mostly because I would never be content at a Jack in the Box or a Del Taco (unless I owned it).

The simple truth is you gotta do what you gotta do, regardless of practicality or enjoyment. Do you think the guy who scrubs up whale vomit at Seaworld for minimum wage enjoys what he does? Some of them probably do (I sure don't want to meet that guy), but most of them probably don't. But unless you inherit it from a dying relative, you're never going to become the head whale vomit-cleaner without working your way to the top from the bottom. Most successful comedians start out working small clubs for about $20 and free beer (if that). Mike Tyson was once just a troubled youth from Brooklyn before achieving success as a boxer (albeit controversial) and later as the best part of The Hangover.

Do what you will, and you will make do.

I Am Hater, Hear Me Hate

This may surprise you, but I'm not big "people person." What may surprise you even more is I'm pretty good with people (a trait I picked up in part at Subway, where sometimes the only way to keep yourself from killing the customer is putting yourself at their level). I really consider myself part of any given group of "people." I hardly even consider myself a "person." Humanity frustrates me. But it also intrigues me. As such, I've observed them. I observe and analyze people (perhaps the one thing I'm better at than feigning intelligence). That's why I call myself "The Random Examiner." I study habits and patterns within communities and individuals. Think of me as an amateur anthropologist. I think humanity is doomed to repeat itself, resulting in gradual devolution. However, I also believe that people are technically good, regardless of their own unique selfish ways.

So, to reiterate; I'm an observant misanthrope. I may not understand everything, but I hold strong opinions about life as I see it. And I usually get along pretty well with most people, in spite of being me. However, there are three groups of people that truly annoy me. Maybe I'm the bad guy here, maybe I just don't understand, but hey - haters gonna hate.

Hipsters

style: lensless glasses, ironic T-shirts (some of which I admit to owning), sweaters, stuff they bought at a thrift store

musical preference: crappy indie music, i.e. "____ before they got famous" (although they can also "ironically" like other, more "mainstream" music)

activities: sulking around, drinking coffee (Starbucks used to be a big hipster hangout, but I recently saw a hipster mug that says "Friends don't let friends drink corporate coffee." I guess Starbucks got too "mainstream"), talking about bands that used to be good until they got popular

Bros

style: fauxhawks, wings/flippies, backwards-sideways-or-off-kilter hats, pre-torn jeans

musical preference: Nickelback, Jack Johnson, radio-friendly hip hop, and the stuff hipsters used to listen to (before it went mainstream)

activities: watching Family Guy, listening to Dane Cook, sports (regardless of whether or not they have any emotional connections to the teams playing, bros will cheer wildly when a team scores another point), pretending they are black (so that they can use the "N" word without all that white guilt)

Juggalos

style: "hatchet man" logos, clown face paint

musical preference: Insane Clown Posse, Vanilla Ice (non-ironically), Tech N9ne, other Psychopathic Records artists

activities: I admit I know very little about juggalos. All I know is they're incredibly passionate about the music they listen to. I guess that's what annoys me; the fact that I don't anything about them beyond the music they listen to (and they drink Faygo soda, although I'm not sure if this is supposed to be ironic). All I know is I'm not crazy about Insane Clown Posse.

Poseurs

style: varies

musical preference: whatever they're not listening to

activities: pretending to be someone else. The point is (cue piano), don't be who other people want you to be. Be who you want to be. Otherwise, you're just a desperate douche bag. And now you know. And knowing is half the battle!

My Life as a Walking Series of Awkward Situations

I love writing. I like blogging. I like to think I do it well. But the truth is, I sound much smarter on paper than I do in real life. That's because I can pick and choose what I write. In life, I have no such filter. I have a disturbing tendency to say what I think. Plus, I'm rather large (a big, burly 6'4", and a hefty one at that). On top of that, my motor skills are limited. This makes me quite awkward.

(no, this isn't me. I make this guy look cool)

Realistically, I could list awkward moments starting from my birth to five minutes ago, but my memory doesn't serve me quite that well. So I will just tell you about a few of the most recent standouts.

Situation #1 - Waist-High in Whatsit

I served a Mormon mission in Brazil, where I spent most my time in the northernmost states of Pará and Amapá, an area where the sewage system runs above ground (I can't speak for the rest of the country, I honestly don't know). In northern Brazil, it also rains almost every day. There are two seasons in northern Brazil; summer (which is very hot and rainy) and winter (which is very rainy and hot). One day, after a particularly rainy lunch, my companion and I were walking some sisters home from lunch. We were used to jumping puddles, but today there were full ponds of poo to cross. When we came to a certain, large puddle, one of the sisters sarcastically suggested I "step on that white rock." The said "rock" was actually a piece of styrofoam, and I knew that. But I thought there was something to support it beneath it. So I stepped on it and immediately fell into filthy rainwater and human excrement. Feces.

I walked to our apartment cussing under my breath, whereupon I threw away my pants and shirt, left my shoes out to dry, and took a long shower. I was in no mood to preach. What's important to note, however, is that my companion and I were teaching a nice family, and we had an appointment set up with them for that evening. As nice as this family was, they had their grandmother living with them, and she hated us. This isn't all that rare an occurence, but she downright loathed us. We're talking Westboro Baptist-style hate. She'd already doused us in a couple of liquids (milk and this liquid vitamin that tasted like combination of urine and butterscotch) and even pulled a knife on us. So as much as she hated us, I hated her.

After much persuasion, my companion and I nervously went to go teach. And true to form, after about 2 minutes, she doused us in ear medication, getting some in my eye. I got up and walked out, screaming obscenities. I may have overreacted, but to be fair, I had just fallen into human waste. After a minute of coaxing, my companion (ever loyal and the voice of reason) got me to settle down enough to finish the lesson, under the condition that he would do the talking and hurry it along. After the lesson, I told him we were done for the day. He obliged.

Situation #2 - Suppose it's a Suppository

Another mission story. Fast forward toward the end of my mission. I was within a month of going home. I had been plagued with illness from the beginning, but I had made it this far, and I was doing pretty good, all things considered. Until I noticed blood in the toilet. Note: I am not a woman. It is important to note this, as it ties into the story later. So, considering I wasn't on my period, and considering my diet was high fiber (rice and beans every day for the past two years), I called the doctor to see why there was blood in my stool. He said it may be an ulcer, and gave me the name of a medication to buy at the pharmacy. He gave me the specific name, and I wrote it down carefully. He warned me, however, that it was a suppository. So going into the pharmacy, I was already not very enthused.

After I made my purchase, I returned home, opened the package, and... it was in a tube. What kind of suppository was this supposed to be? I exchanged confused looks with my companion who said, "I'm not going to help you apply it, dude." I imagined sticking a tube up my rectum, and said "I don't want your help!" and called the doctor back. I regaled him with what had just happened. After a thoughtful pause, he said, "It sounds as though they sold you vaginal cream."

Now I was truly angry. I called my mission president and the first thing I said was, "President, I'm gonna ask you something, and I want you to be honest. Do I look like I have a vagina?" After a brief explanation, president was laughing at my misfortune. In a final interview before I left Brazil, he told me "Elder Orgill, I know you've been through a lot, but I just want to let you know... I've really enjoyed it." And he laughed his contagious laugh.

Situation #3 - Dark Times

As I've mentioned, I work at Subway. And I like to think I'm a pretty decent Sandwich Artist. But I'm just as awkward at work as I am anywhere else.

I was closing with a certain coworker one night. We share a similar sense of humor, which makes it so much more enjoyable. We talk about things as complex as relationships or as simple as The Dark Crystal. She's fun to work with.

On this particular night, we were discussing out mutual love of Dave Chappelle, especially his too-short-lived Chappelle's Show. We were quoting the famous "Charlie Murphy Hollywood Stories: Rick James" sketch back and forth. She had suddenly stopped talking when I yelled "Darkness!" (Rick James' nickname for Charlie). I turned around and saw a small group of black women entering the store. Dammit. I don't know whether or not they heard us, as they were very nice and fun to talk to, but it felt incredibly uncomfortable all the same. I mean, what are the chances? Black people in Utah?

Situation #4 - Sometimes I Can Be Retarded

Did that last Subway story make you cringe in discomfort? Wait till you hear this one.

One day, we had just finished serving some young men with Downs Syndrome, accompanied by a caregiver. I was working on making a sandwich for another young man, and had just finished making my third or fourth mistake when I yelled "I'm so retarded!" I instantly realized what I had done, and was met by a sour look from the caregiver sitting in the corner.

I went back to the fridge, presumably to catch my cool (actually, to sob as I ate my stockpile of meatball subs). I felt bad, but when I use a word like "retarded," I don't use it to refer to the disabled or handicapped. It's the same way I use the word "gay" to describe something unfortunate or unseemly or somehow otherwise regrettable. I mean no offense to my homosexual friends by it, and they know it. But for some crazy reason, "retarded" is taboo. And that's just retarded.

Situation #5 - Thpeech Pathology

The following is a Facebook exchange, posted on a friend's wall, for the world to see;

Friend's wife: Love you.
Friend's sister-in-law: No "I"?
Friend's wife: No, no "I"
Me: What she meant to say was "Brent love you." And that's just bad grammar.
Friend's wife: My mom's a speech pathologist, I'm allowed to have bad grammar as long as my mom's not around.
Me: Yeah, and thpeak with a lithp, haha. My thithter'th a thpeech pathologitht, too.
Friend's sister-in-law: Her sister has a lisp.
Friend's wife: My sister has a lisp.
Friend's wife: Speak of the devil.
Me: ... Well, don't I just feel like a giant douche. I'm going to go into hiding for awhile.

Really? This one seems very ironic. I mean, a speech pathologist that has a daughter with a lisp is kind of like a firefighter having a kid that's a pyromaniac.

I assure you, this post could go on for days. But I'm done embarrassing myself today. I'm going to go to the basement and weep into my pillow for a while.