Saturday, June 29, 2013

Shirts are the Enemy

     The world hates me.

     I'm not depressed or suicidal at all, by the way.

     A couple days ago, a couple cousins and I went swimming at my uncle's parents house. Like I said, the cousins I'm staying with are young and autistic, so I basically spent a lot of my time watching them, making sure they didn't drown themselves.

     The oldest of the three decided to start a game of tag. I decided I could manage to watch the kids and play with them at the same time. I got away with this for a little while until the oldest (only four years old, mind you) decided to really make me play.

     I played along with her as she chased me out of the pool and to the diving board. She was it, and she wanted me to run away from her (she really did say that). As she got close, she said "Dive, Tylan, dive!"

     I complied. I dove into the water.

     It sucks being tall sometimes. This was one of those times.

     Very rarely do I actually dive correctly. Fate was with/against me, and I entered perfectly. Being tall, I went all the way down to the bottom very quickly. So quickly, in fact, that I didn't have time to adjust for the fact that the rough concrete was speeding towards my chest.

     I've never had road rash, but I think what happened was more or less the same thing.

     My whole chest scraped along the bottom of the pool, in this amorphous shape of redness to appear across my whole front side of my torso.

     Not to worry, it's healed a little bit, but it's still something to laugh at when you see it, because it looks like a gigantic hickey. No joke.

     So I got that battle scar first.

     The next day, I went to do some yard work early on in the day, around 11:30-ish. The sun was hot, I was wearing a black shirt, and I was going to be out there for another two hours.

     Because of the already present heat, my shirt began to stick to my body. With the aforementioned pool-induced hickey, this was an extremely uncomfortable and painful situation. My head was stuck in the moment, so I simply took off my shirt so I wouldn't have to deal with it.

     Two days later, I am still dealing with the consequence of that decision. My whole back, mostly my shoulders, looks as if I grafted skin from a freshly cooked lobster.

     With these major pains on both sides of my body, I have finally taken into account Green Day's song Know Your Enemy.


     Shirts are the enemy.

Friday, June 28, 2013

Worst Movies Ever

     If I was reading this list, I'd have one of two options. 1) Listen to the advice. 2) Immediately get my hands on a copy of these films.

     Take your pick on either, but I just know for certain that this list is...

5 Movies I Plan On Never Watching Again. Ever.

1. Gentlemen Broncos

     This "movie" was made by the same people who made Napolean Dynamite, which says something important right off the bat;  the humor is going to be kinda strange. I thought Napolean pulled it off alright, but Gentlemen just pushes it. A lot. I had the misfortune of sitting through it twice, and I know that this is one film I definitely do not want to sit through again.

2. Clash/Wrath of the Titans

     Some people may say that they really liked this movie, or that it was epic, but for me, I know it's a definite never-again. Maybe if they had more dialogue thrown into the randomly-smashing-pillars-with-a-face action, then I would've been ok. I just felt that there really wasn't any story present whatsoever.

3. Twilight

     I feel ashamed to admit that I've seen this film. The sad truth though, is that I have. Curiosity drove me to the breaking point, and so I watched it. It's a good thing that I've done lots of good in my life, as to weigh out that horrible mistake in ever watching it.

     I thought I should just slip in right here that I watched like five minutes of another one of the movies in the saga. I think my mom had got it through RedBox and had popped it in. I didn't know what she was watching, and for the short time I watched it, I thought it was some kind of teen comedy movie.

4. Eragon

     I'm a big fan of Christopher Paolini's Inheritance Cycle. I really am. The film adaptation of Eragon makes me wonder if Paolini was even on set when they were filming. And if he was, what kind of drug did they give him to let the directors get away with all the terrible changes they made? Bleh.

5. The Last Airbender

     Yes, I'm a kid at heart. I've watched the original Avatar: The Last Airbender from Nickelodeon. That show was good. I liked it. It had good humor, even though it was a kids show (cut me some slack, though. I was a kid when it first aired).

     The movie took everything I liked from the show, put it in a blender with boring-ness and mediocrity, pureed for seven hours, and then dehydrated the whole mixture for three years. Everything from personality to pronunciation was wrong, and made me desperately wish M. Night Shyamalan was assassinated. No offense, bro. I guess that can't really be taken non-offensively though.

     Alright, I hope my list gave you some movies to avoid (before or after watching them), and I hope my opinions don't create any enemies.

     Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to leave your suggestions for the next list in the comments below. I think you guys could come up with some better ideas then the ones I've had so far.

Thursday, June 27, 2013

The... *Dramatic Pause* ...Rec Center

     A couple years back, when I lived in Idaho, me and a close friend went to the local recreation center. I will keep this friend's name withheld, since his name spawned a couple jokes. Poor guy.

     We pretty much just screwed around the whole time.

     First, we went swimming. The pools were awesome, we totally dominated at in-water basketball, and nothing says "I'm a teenager" like abusing the little kid's slides.

     After we were wrinkly enough to pass off as both California raisins and old men, we got out.

     The hallway to the changing room is stupid. The floor is tile, which I get it. Tile is used in bathrooms. But, very few drain were actually placed into the ground, so once you were wet, you were pretty much screwed.

     Somehow, my friend managed to keep his footing. I think that his feet somehow wrinkled in just the right way as to perform as suction cups. If not, it's just further proof that he is indeed a squid, a personal belief of mine.

     I, however, was not so lucky. It was as if my feet and the floor were dating, and the floor decided to kick my feet out... from underneath me. This is ironic, since my feet should've been doing the kicking.

     Heh. Heh heh. Punny.

     A towel and a bruised tail bone later, we found ourselves in the second story of the building testing out all of the exercise equipment. Treadmills, stairs, treadmills, a bike thing, treadmills... Everything is a treadmill to me.

     I think it's a waste of money to have a "stair" machine though. I mean, we literally took the stairs to get up to the stair machine. Redundant much?

     We decided to try running the indoor track after we got bored with the machines. I know, from a running machine to a running place. Big whoop.

     I just found the track odd. At most schools that have a track, one lap is a quarter mile. This makes it easy to do different round distances, like 1.5, 2.5, etc. etc.

     For whatever reason, the designers made the track one fifth of a mile. This makes quarter and half miles impossible, a fact that annoyed me. I mean, half miles actually can mean something. But .4 and .6 just make people say "Were you drunk?"

     After we nearly stepped on this lady's chihuahua (dogs need to run laps too), we made our way downstairs again. More accurately, we found ourselves next to the weights area.

     I was thirteen. The sign next to entry way clearly said you must be fourteen, or have adult supervision.

     Uh oh. Ethical choice time.

     As I've said before, I looked old for my age, so theoretically I could get away with doing the weights. But I felt morally inclined to not break the rule.

     If I was the one reading this story, I'd be telling the author that he already nearly stepped on a chihuahua and stole a kid's slide. Lifting some weights barely makes a mark at this point.

     Now, that is what runs through my head. Then, I felt like I'd be kicked out of the rec center. So I let my year-older friend go do stuff while I watched.

     We played a little basketball afterwards, and then decided to call it a day and walk home.

     As we walked down the busy road together towards our houses, this extremely attractive girl leaned out of the passenger window of her speeding car and simply yelled at the two of use, "Take your shirt off!"

     We did what came naturally to us. We began to argue about who she was talking about.

     The whole walk home, we bickered about whether she was asking my friend or me to take off our shirt.

     I have a confession to make. As I revealed in my last post, I somewhat lethargic. That was an exaggeration, since I'm really not that bad off. But I argued with my friend for quite some time, convinced it was me...

     It was him. She was talking about him. If my friend every reads this, and he knows who he his, I admit it. I was wrong.

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Bee-bee SEE.

     If citizenship was based on the country from which the shows we watch are from, I'd be on the verge of becoming British. This probably doesn't say much, since I only watch two TV shows, but if the amount didn't matter, I'd definitely be British.

     If you've read previous posts, you'd know that I'm a big Whovian. Not big enough to commit myself to watching Classic Who, but enough to be dedicated to the current rendition. This covers my first BBC addiction.

     In previous days, I was introduced to and watched all of Sherlock, another excellent BBC show. Given, there are only six "episodes" (more like movies) available on Netflix, but that doesn't stop me from declaring it one of my regulars.

     By the way, what the crap is up with the season/series finale? Series if you're a hardcore Brit, which I am not. I mean, I have a theory that's plausible, but still... you can't just leave it like that! Then again, in doing so, Moffat has pretty much guaranteed a large returning audience with the new episodes.

     So yep. Netflix has failed me again, even though I guess technically the new season hasn't aired yet for Sherlock. In this time of crisis, I'm on the lookout for some new Netflix-ready shows. Preferably British. Not to be racist/nationalist/country-ist or anything along those lines.

     I'm looking into Merlin, possibly. Any other suggestions? I'm welcome to all and any.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013


     I have to say, I'm pretty lethargic.

     I wish I could say that I'm the picture of health, or that all the fitness journals get their tips from me. But I can't.

     Maybe I wouldn't want that. That actually sounds pretty lame. No offense meant to you who actually do that kind of stuff, of course.

     While I'm talking about this stuff, I have a question that has been bugging me for a while. Can you actually be out of shape, if you were never in shape? Yeah. Pretty weird question.

     So yep! I'm not exactly "fit," as one would say.

     I've been trying to combat this fact for some time, looking through countless pages of different exercise routines and diet plans, and I happened to stumble upon Insanity.

     Maybe it's just me, but HOLY FREAKING CRAP. I thought that the opinions I heard about it were exaggerations, but no. They are all absolutely true, possibly a little tame.

     This "exercise" program is actually a series of Olympic events that are staged in the House of Hades every two weeks. You start out with a gateway exercise, which makes you think that the rest won't be so bad. After the first 72 seconds of tricking yourself into believing this, the warm-up to the warm-up warm-ups begins.

     The "fitness" instructor laughs at you as his personal demon helpers do his sick dance by his sides. As they cringe in pain at the amount of stress put upon their mental and physical strength, the maniacal instructor continues to spout impossibly difficult exercises, yet does NOT perform them himself.

     After an eternity of grueling self-inflicted torture, he finally announces that you are now going to descend into the second level. Of 36.

     THIS is what I somehow convinced myself to participate in.

     HOWEVER... I saw exactly where this exercise was heading as I did the pre-pre-warm-ups. I knew I would be stuck desecrating my body in a fruitless effort to shed pounds. So I took the escape route.

     I shut off the video before I got sucked into doing anymore of Heck's 74th Million Biweekly Satan Games.

      Yes, I admit it, this whole story is something of a hyperbole to make me seem like less of a wimp for giving up. But, regardless of how I say it, that's what it boils down to.

Monday, June 24, 2013


     As I mentioned in a previous post, whenever I do chores or work I'll put in my ear buds and listen to Brick.
     I decided that this was too vague of a statement, so I've chosen to give a brief-ish explanation.
     A while back, one of my uncles was upgrading his iPod. He had an iPod Touch, 2nd gen. Now, for all of you people out there with iPhone 17's and Samsung Universes, an iPod Touch (2nd gen) is just absolutely awful, I'm sure. But for a twelve year old kid, that was pretty cool.

     By an amazing stroke of luck, a couple of things happened. First off, this uncle that was upgrading his device is the "fun" uncle. I'm pretty sure everybody has at least one of these. You might like all your relatives (maybe), but there's just a couple of those fun uncles that are just cool. He's one of them.

     Secondly, apparently my fun uncle likes me. Again, not in a gross way, so stop thinking like that.

     Lastly, he's very generous.

     These few things are a recipe for a moment of for-the-win-ness.

     One day, he pulled me aside to talk to me. What it all boiled down to was he was going to give me his iPod Touch as soon as he purchased a replacement. He knew that my family was moving out of state soon though, so he promised to mail it to me.

     DUDE. I was sooo flippin' excited. I was only twelve, and I was gonna have my very own electronic device. I guess that young people having devices is normal now, but at the time it was extremely awesome.

     When I got it, nothing before then had received more care and gentleness. Even babies. Ok, maybe I treated babies better, but it was almost a tie.

     At the beginning, I'd make sure any handler of the device had trimmed fingernails, scrubbed their palms, and signed a legally binding pledge to not damage the object in any way, shape, or form.

     After about two hours of that shenanigans, owners carelessness set in. Setting it on a bed? Just throw it man. Cleaning the screen? Meh, saliva on finger tips is good enough.

     It looked good all the time, though. I wasn't that careless. But, I started to delve into the world of apps and games, and my parents noticed that I spent a lot of time playing Zenonia or Bejeweled.

     After owning the thing for about a eight months, they decided I needed to get rid of it. I was devastated then, but now it doesn't really matter.

     Upon the fateful afternoon, they drove me to the local pawn shop, and sent me in with the instructions to find something to trade it with.

     After wandering the small and dirty aisles of that store, the only thing I found that was kinda close in value was the Zune 30.

     Desperate to leave the dingy building, I just chose this device, and it has been with me ever since. Like Dirtch, I detested it at first. But now, I affectionately call it Brick.

     It hasn't given anybody a concussion yet, but every dog has his day.

Friday, June 21, 2013

Dumb Things

New Tradition

     While brainstorming, I came up with this some-what odd idea for a new tradition (I say new because there's one already). My idea is kinda weird, so don't judge me. Too harshly, at least.

     Every friday, I'm going to post lists. These lists could be of just about anything, which hopefully will help me in my never-ending battle with being boring.

     So without further ado, I'll get things started.

5 Stupid Things I've Done (On Accident)

1. Mixed up the soaps

     It was my chore to do the dishes, which seemed to happen a lot. And I HATED my situation. I've convinced myself that I have mageirocophobia, which is fear of cooking/kitchens. The very action of standing in the kitchen makes me stressed. I don't know why.

     I had just finished loading the dish washer. Because of my phobia-induced stress, I lost track of what I was doing. Instead of grabbing the dish detergent, I grabbed the dish soap. I barely knew the difference in the first place, but I definitely knew afterwards.

     In case you're curious, if your kids run out of bubble soap, doing what I did will keep them equally entertained.

2. Worked without working

     Whenever I do something that is work, I'll listen to Brick (another story. It's an old Microsoft Mp3 player). Sometimes, this is my downfall. When the job is particularly noisy, such as vacuuming or mowing, I'll turn it way up so I can't hear anything but my music.

     On more than one occasion, I began pushing the vacuum or mower while listening to music, and the vacuum/mower wasn't even turned on. To onlookers, I was acting like a nervous schizophrenic, pushing around a device that wasn't working.

3. Attacked my head

     I'm a pretty tall guy. It's the first thing people notice about me, which they state without first realizing that I've heard it said more often then "yolo swag." I hear that a lot, by the way.

     So it's pretty common for me to absolutely demolish my face when standing up from stooping. Some examples? Cupboards, pantries, windows, moving trailers, caves (yes, caves), etc. I think if I shave my head, there would be more bruises then anyone could count.

4. Burst a banana

     Ever since I saw this certain Youtube video by Vsauce, I've been opening my bananas by breaking it in half. With my bare hands.

     This is the WARRIOR approach to opening fruit. You must show no mercy! After jabbing your thumbs in to the middle of the outside spine of the banana, you grip it viciously with your calloused paws and SNAP the bananas back. AND it's spirit. If doubt is present in this masculine fruit cutting, failure is imminent.

     Long story short, I doubted, and ended up with squished banana guts all over me.

5. Stepped on a snail

     Yeah... no story needed for this one.

     One more thing. There isn't really much people reading this, let alone people who'd comment, but I'd be more than happy to receive suggestions for next week's list in the comments below. Thanks!

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Six Flags

     I was fourteen.

     A couple of close relatives and I went to Six Flags Magic Mountain.

     I learned a few things that day.

     Prior to that visit to Six Flags, I had been on only two roller coasters in my entire life both of which were at Lagoon. Also, neither of them should count since they were sissy coasters (the white roller coaster isn't exactly a dreamboat).

     So there I was, with next to no experience riding roller coasters. Not only that, but I seemed to carry this extreme fear of heights.

     Buuuuuuut the friend of my aunt who was with us happened to be attractive, and I somehow found myself convinced to go on a roller coaster without question.

     The one she had in mind was apparently brand new, elaborate, and terrifying.  It was called X4 I think. I don't really remember the name too well. I do remember, however, watching the riders ahead of me being swooped along a metal platform of death.

     I was contemplating simply ditching out, but this was the first ride! I couldn't skip when we'd only just began. So I got on.

     If you haven't been on the ride, I'll describe it for you.

     You start in an upright position when you get strapped in. As soon as the OK is given to kill everyone, the seats are put into this wobbly state of pivoting on the connections. Then you slowly rise up a slope backwards, with a perfect view of the concrete that will smash your face in if your harness is faulty.

     And then the descent begins. For the entire ride you're going backwards. That doesn't sound too bad, but keep in mind that on top of not seeing where you're going, you are being jerked in random directions, twisting in more ways than a pretzel doing yoga on steroids, being dragged upside down by your butt essentially, and then onto your eyebrows have bursts of flame that were, quite possibly, the cause of several good mens' baldness.

     Funny thing was, looking back, there wasn't any fear present. My reasoning behind this is that because there was so much that was going on at once, my senses were on overload, meaning there wasn't any room for fear.

     So the lesson I learned from that was that if you are going to an amusement park, ride the "scariest" ride first, since everything else will be cake after it.

     Later on in the day, I began to notice that lots of people were carrying around this same object.

     A freakin' Rastafarian banana. I'm not sure what it was, but something primal inside of me desired so strongly to obtain one of these abominations. Low on cash, I settled for the best idea I could think of.

     In a lot of places, there are those booths where they have to guess your weight, birthday, etc. And if they're off by so much, you claim a prize.

     After spotting out a booth that carried the ugly bananas, I stepped up and asked the guy to guess my age.

     I may have been fourteen, but I had some stubble. Not much, but enough. It also helped that I was wearing sunglasses.

     What he said was, "Well you're either a lot older than you look, or a lot younger."

     So at this point, he has about a fifty fifty chance.

     "I'll go with twenty-four."

     Needless to say, I got my banana.

    What I learned was that if you have some kind of advantage to ruthlessly exploit, do so with caution. I may have claimed my prize, but the shamedfaceness that the poor guy had to put up with was awful.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

The Most Ridiculous Death Ever

     Ridiculous story time.

     Quite a while back, I don't know how long, I'd say when I was about nine, my family was living in Salt Lake City. I know that I've said that I just flew out of there, but my family has this tendency to move a lot. At the time, this was probably our fourth or fifth time living in Utah.

     My youngest brother has Aspergers (don't quote me on the spelling), and with that comes certain occasions where he needs comforting. Just a thought though, my brother is like the coolest kid in the world. He's a flipping beast when it comes to Legos, and I am insanely jealous.

     Say there was a crazy person contest. Then, my parents signed up for said competition. They would be immediately disqualified, since professionals aren't allowed.

     Ok, I lied. They'd be arrested on the spot.

     Alright, they aren't that crazy. They're good people, just a little insane sometimes.

     This is one of those times.

     My brother had just had some kind of incident, and my mom couldn't calm him down. So she did the most random thing ever.

     She whipped out a rubber chicken.

     It wasn't like an adorable chicken, it was like one of these things. Uuuuugly.
     Yeah. For whatever reason, maybe their was a birthday party in Asgard, or perhaps the daleks were finally wiped out, it totally chilled him out. My mom wiggled (wiggled) it to make it look like it was dancing, and it worked. Completely calmed down.

     Please allow me to interject. What to the flying crap? I didn't understand how this ugly monstrosity worked as a stress reliever. It made no sense to my nine-year-old mind, and it still doesn't. 

     The next step in my mom's plan to implement this thing was to name it. My little brother quickly came up with a name.

     "Well he dances, he's made of rubber, and he's a chicken. We'll call him D.R.C."

     To make it less syllables, we added a few letters and called him Dirtch. 

     Somehow, that chicken became part of the family. Everybody started to enjoy his presence. Even I started to like hanging out with him.

     I say hanging out on purpose, mind you. At the time, it was me and my two brothers (both younger) that would play together, and we used Dirtch all the time. He was like the duct tape of play time. Add him to any sort of activity, and it suddenly became a bajillion times better. 

     We made a fatal mistake one day.

     Because Dirtch was rubber, we could stretch any part of him in any which way. One of those stretchy parts was the neck.

     Getting hit with Dirtch was like getting smacked across the hand by a baby kitten, mewling at you with giant eyes, and trusting you with it's life. It was that gentle.

     Since my autistic brother was more on the physically sensitive side, pillow fights were out of the question. Sooo we played this deranged version of dodge ball where Dirtch was the projectile. 

     We'd grasp his head in between our thumb and index finger, and then pull back his body with our free hand. Shooting him across the room was pretty similar to shooting a rubber band or slingshot. 

     This warfare continued without knowledge from my parents for some time. We noticed the wrinkles in Dirtch's neck, but we figured that was just from aging (yes, we thought he actually aged).

     On one particular day, one of us three, not sure which one, fired Dirtch across the room. Apparently the stress was just too much for the poor chicken, and he gave up on us. In one hand was his body... in the other, his head.

     If you think you know true sadness, you should have seen how we all reacted to his death.


     We had become so attached to that rubber thing, that we were crying for two hours over his death. My mom thought it was hilarious, but pretended to feel remorse at the time. She sat us down and explained that sometimes people die and we don't know why. She said we'd have a funeral for him, so we could properly say good bye.

     At the time we lived in this apartment complex thingy (not sure what the correct terminology is, since their were only four separate living spaces). On the side of the house-thing that ran next to the road was this giant boulder next to a tree. The perfect spot.

     We dug out a space roughly twelve inches long, eight inches wide, and 4 inches deep, and placed Dirtch and his head in the whole. After a eulogy in the language of a five year old, we covered up the grave. I wrote out Dirtch's headstone with a sharpie marker on a rock, and put it at the head of the grave. The tone was somber for the next couple days.

     This was the first time that my mom explained death to me. With a rubber chicken.

Monday, June 17, 2013


     Right before I left Idaho, I was forced into participating in a bowling activity with some friends. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to hang out before I left, I just suck at bowling.

     We got there, and for the heck of it, we used different names when we typed in our stats on the bowling computer thingamabob. Everybody chose random names that they thought were funny or in accordance with their personality. Me? I chose "The Doctor."

     We finished the first game, which, by some miraculous stroke of luck, I won. I didn't even use the bumper thingies! I was ridiculously proud of myself.

     For the second game, it was decided to switch our names to match our current desires for a major to attain in college. Of the ones used were psychologist, engineer, etc. I chose architect.

     Game went fine, except I didn't win. Bummer. Didn't think I would, since the first was some freak-of-nature accident. There was probably some solar system with the planets aligned somewhere in the Libra constellation at the time. If not, there is no explanation for my performance.

     The time came for us to return our rented shoes.

     Goodness, I've never seen an old man make such a face.

     The current clerk at the counter read the screen after we told him our lane. I'm fairly certain he labeled us all then and there as juvenile delinquents, since we all had used such weird and blatantly forged identies.

     He was so shocked at first that he refused to ask us to turn in our shoes. Finally, he timidly asked, "Alright, which one of you is the biochemist?"

     I don't think that man has ever seen, or ever see again, a group of people with such weird names. I think he may have been a little senile, or just played along, since he started calling us Mr. "insert title here" as we left.

     "I hope you enjoyed your game Mrs. Biochemist!"

     "Be safe on your ride home Mr. Engineer!"

     Best day of bowling ever.

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Red-Neck Segway

     As you, anonymous internet browser, continue to read this, keep in mind that this happened a couple of months ago. Not years. Months.

     My family was packing stuff up. Since we didn't have too big of a place in Salt Lake City to put our stuff, we were putting it in a storage unit.

     Note: if you need a place to hide a stolen car, storage units come in the convenient size of 10' by 15'.

     Just saying.

     We were whittling our way through all of our junk, which we had a surprising amount of. And for all you grammar buffs out there, I know I'm supposed to end sentences with words like "of." Oh look, I did it again, sort of.

     As do most big items, they required the use of a furniture dolly. This is where my troubles really started.

     At the time, I was stressed and tired, and so my mind was doing things to me.

In reality, the dolly looked like this:
 But in my head, for whatever reason, the dolly looked like this:
     As my dad gave my looks of confusion, I explained my idea as a "redneck Segway." He promptly went inside the house, so that he couldn't be associated with the resulting actions.

     I stood on my chariot, feet on the platform, wheels in front of me. I was thinking something along the lines of goodness, why haven't I thought of this before? My first couple attempts to get things going were unsuccessful. On the third lean-forward, I got results.

     Here's my theory on what happened. Note: some fabrication may have been implemented.
     My momentum got the wheels rolling. My center of gravity combined with the downward slope of the driveway created a miniature black hole, pulling me and the Segway into it, resulting in everything pivoting around the wheels.

     As this was happening, an invisible hipster kid hopped out of his wheel chair and started playing Beethoven's fifth on a white, baby grand piano. This, of course, made my head turn, as I was still falling.

     With the distraction in place, the hipster kid's associates, ninja flying squirwolfs (Google it), pulled my right leg through the bars of the dolly, resulting in this weird leg-metal knot.

     The piano piece completed, and I found myself with my leg tangled up with the dolly, as if the leg and the would-be Segway had been arm wrestling in barbed wire.

     I laughed it off, but the result of the incident had been me scraping off most of the epidermis on the front of the lower half of my shin.

     It was bleeding faintly, but just to make sure I didn't get dirt of contamination-abominations into my mortal flesh wound, I covered it with the biggest band aids in the first aid kit I found.

     The next day, my first period class was US history.

     This particular class is taught by this aging squat man with a comb over. Generally, this image is negative, but I swear, this guy is probably the coolest and funniest teacher. Ever. Period. Don't argue me on this unless you feel like losing.

     Another thing, he doesn't have a problem with making fun of things that people normally wouldn't. The best part? He gets away with it.

     I sit near the front, so when he got up there to start doing his thing, he was scanning the room for attendance, and happened to see that my leg was covered with band aids.

     I don't know how he knew, but he somehow figured I was a boy scout (Shush, don't mock me. It's cool, just like bow ties. And fezes.).

     "I think you need to get your totin' chit taken away from you, Mr. McKinney."
     As if that wasn't bad enough, it gets worse.
     "What are you talking about, sir?"
     "Well, it seems to me, you cut your leg while shaving."

     The teacher had just subjugated my battle scar into a laughing stock for the class room. What was I supposed to do? If I told the truth, that would make the class laugh even harder. So, I rolled with the punches.

     "Insert witty retort here."

     That was probably the worst thing I could've said, but it's what came out.

     It's a good thing I moved, so now I won't have to see any of those people again.

Friday, June 14, 2013

Doctor Who-ness

     I like Netflix. A lot of people I know tend to give it crap, but it's kind of like Facebook when timeline was introduced. For the first three months, all hell broke loose. Nowadays, if someone starts to complain about it, they're generally ignored.

     Same thing with Netflix, when I hear about it. Most of the incoming info about it was related to prices and splitting up. Boo-hoo. Now, Netflix is Netflix, and oh-blah-di, oh blah-dah. Life goes on.

     Now, however, I've noticed an issue.

     I'm drawing to a close with season six of Doctor Who. Most people, upon first thought, would think nothing more of this. Sweet, he just needs to watch season seven. Woo-hoo.

     Totally kidding on that. No one is going to think that, because next to no one is going to read this. No offense meant to those who actually stumble upon this.

     Netflix doesn't have season seven. Ahem. Let me repeat that.

     Netflix doesn't have season seven.

     Once more?

     Netflix doesn't have season seven.

     I've been watching the show dedicatedly (not a word, now it is) and religiously for the past while, so that I can be caught up once the next season starts up later this year. How is that supposed to happen without season seven on Netflix?

     Now, I suppose that on the slim chance people read this, and on the even slimmer chance that one of you watches shows on the internet, then you'd have advice. Maybe something along the lines of:

     "Oh yes, just go to[puterviruses]."
     "I bet you could find it on[anizedcrime]."
     "I know they have season seven on[ernmentiswatchingyou]."

     I'm probably paranoid, I'd admit it. And I may have accidentally followed links intentionally that may or may not have given me [un]desired things (that is not a confession, unnamed government surveillance agency).

     So where do we go now? I think Google.

     Maybe found a site. Maybe.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Firefly (Not the Bugs)

     Whew! Barely making it today. I wasn't sure I was going to get anything on today, so posting this late at night is cutting it pretty close. Then again, maybe it doesn't count because I'm just writing about the fact that I have nothing to write about.

     Well, I think I'm getting hit by blogger doubt syndrome already. Which is a pretty bad sign, since I've barely even done anything yet. Shoot, even posting this is a jinx, meaning that in all likelihood, this post is going to result in me slowly adjusting to not writing everyday, and then ending all together.

     How to solve this? Excellent question that doesn't matter, since this isn't going to be read by more than three people most likely. Regardless, I think I'll just start to write about random things, even more random then I'm already talking about.

     Did you know that Joss Whedon, director of the acclaimed-by-nerds-and-nots-alike film The Avengers directed and wrote a failed one season series called Firefly. Also, did you know that cowboys in space is flippin' awesome?

     It started about four days ago. I walked in on my aunt and uncle watching a movie called Serenity, which I mistakenly asked what it was.

     They have this state of mind where they question and judge every one of my life choices up to the time. Right now they entered it. Yep.

     They simply couldn't believe that I hadn't seen the movie. Apparently it's amazing.
     Then, when they got over it finally, they said that it was a continuation of a series called Firefly. I said I hadn't seen that either. Second mistake of the night.

     That whole state of mind where they criticize me? Yeah, rushing back.

     Four days later, I finished the season/series (same thing basically, since it got cancelled). I'll admit, I was skeptical at first, but it paid off. It was pretty sweet. Next, I just need to get around to watching the movie. Eat your heart out, relatives.

Monday, June 10, 2013


     I was going to put something on here yesterday,  since I've had this pretty good streak of consecutive posts (ok, maybe not good, but I hadn't broken the chain since I started). However, since I obviously didn't put anything, I concocted an excuse *ahem* I mean, created a very valid reason behind my absence.

     Yep. That's all I got.

Saturday, June 8, 2013

Earning the Title

     I have a confession to make.

     A secret.

     A deep, dark, one.

     One that would make you come after me with torches and pitch forks.

     I've never watched Star Trek.

     I call myself a nerd, but secretly, I've hardly done anything worthy of that title. First and foremost on the list of never-haves is not having watched Star Trek. It would be one thing if I had never watched it and left it at that. But nooooo. I took it too far.

     If someone asks me, for example, "Hey man, have you ever watched Star Trek?"

     I blatantly lie.

     I say yes. Even though I haven't seen a single minute of Star Trek in my life. In fact, the only exposure I've every really had to the show is being around Trekkies, and playing through an hour of a video game my aunt got from Red Box.

     If only that was where my list of nerd-less ventures ended.

     I don't play any card games. It seems that nowadays, card games are generally associated with nerds and geeks, which I tend to proudly classify myself as. I don't play them, though. The most I've ever played a card game was from being taken to Magic tournaments with friends, or playing Yu-Gi-Oh! and Pokemon as a kid (which, doesn't really count).

     Video games. One of the other many topics related to nerdism is video game playing. Many people are FPS addicts, playing all those Modern Ops and Black Warfare. Even if those two are switched up, or are the same thing, I wouldn't know. That's the extent of my knowledge. In fact, I suck at FPS games. The only one I'm awesome at is Portal, and that doesn't "count," apparently.

     Now that I come to think of it, the list of games that I have fully beaten is as follows: Portal, Portal 2, and Legend of Zelda and the Minish Cap (It exists. I am not crazy). I've played about five minutes of a Spyro game when I was eight, played some Mario Kart, and died in seven minutes on Skyrim (not my copy).

     While writing this, I've come to question my very essence as a nerd. I don't do any of the things that make a nerd, so where do I fit?

     Elementary, my dear Watson. Note, I am well aware that Sherlock Holmes never really said that So don't worry. But honestly, don't call me conceded. I'm pretty sure it's because of my grades.

     If you haven't gauged it by my immaturity already, I'm still a high school student. Buuuuut I'm a freak at my school. I hear people complaining about their geometry homework. That's cool, go ahead. I'm alright with that. I'm not whining about that or saying anything. But then they see me coming. Immediately, they beg me to leave, knowing that I'm three years ahead of them in math. With me there, they feel that their constitutional right to complain is infringed.

     Sigh. Whatever.

     I like math. And English. Aaaaaaand science. Basically all of it. Except history. I suck at history. It is my kryptonite. Anyhoo, apparently not only do I have this weird and sick enjoyment of learning, but compared to everybody else, I'm freakishly able to actually do the work. And that, my non-existent readers, is why I have been labeled a nerd.

     Reject me if you want, but I think I'll stick with that title. 

Friday, June 7, 2013

Don't Go

     About two, two-and-a-half months ago, I became introduced and addicted to Doctor Who. I'm not overly obsessed, however. By this I mean that I'm not one of those people that watches a whole season in three days. I get through an episode any time I can though.

     I've been trying to get through season four for some time now. I took it more slowly than the previous seasons though, because I have whovian friends. Because they don't know how to keep their mouths shut, I knew more than I wanted to know. For example, I knew the season finale would center around four knocks,  that Donna Noble would be gone, and that David Tennant was leaving.


     Yes, I appreciated Christopher Eccleston and how he started the series. I also know that Matt Smith is pretty good, according to what people have told me (without permission). But David Tennant has been my rock for three seasons now, and I didn't want him to go! Goodness gracious.

     For the last 4+ "episodes" (baby movies) of the season, all that was in my mind was the fact that Dave was going to leave. He was going to die, I was going to be sad, and he was leaving.

     He SPOKE to me.

     As I was having my internal discussion about how much David needs to stay, I just thought "Do you even want to stay?" The very next second, in the episode itself, David said "I don't want to leave."

     Holy freaking crap. I don't even care if the two events were unrelated, he spoke to ME. Me. Mitch friggin' McKinney.

     That night, I fell asleep in a spiraling depression of confusion, as I tried to figure out what I was going to do with myself now that David is gone....

     Keep watching the show. Lulz.

Thursday, June 6, 2013


    Small children amaze me. Not in a gross way, you perverted pedophile. Their words and actions tend to carry a certain spirit around them, usually one of humor, creativity, and mortal terror.

     As I mentioned in my last post, I just flew down to Arizona to stay with some family for half the summer. My aunt with whom I am staying has three children, all under the age of four. There isn't anything wrong with that, but with these kids characteristics and autism, it makes for a lot entertainment.

     The youngest of the three is about 20 months (I think. I'm still trying to figure it out). This kid speaks less English than a native born African tribesman. Any noise he makes is likely to be farts or screams, but as of late, he creates a whole new noise altogether. To make an approximation, imagine Daniel Radcliffe (Chamber of Secrets age) was standing in front of you. Now, make your Daniel start to gargle some thick liquid, like corn syrup or olive oil. Next, throw in a bunch of cobras trying to make small-talk with him. Finally, have Dan respond in parsel tongue. Pretty strange, eh? This is serious. I can't think of a more accurate representation of this small child's vocal functions. To top this all off, he only whispers. Rarely will he make this nonhuman noise any louder than 15 decibels (for reference, a whisper is 20, rustling leaves is 10). This kid is also a ninja. I swear he can teleport.

     Please try to sympathize with me on this, so I don't feel so alone. You're sitting on a sofa, enthralled with your latest book, perhaps a novelization of some movie. A barely audible noise is heard to your left, comparable only to that reptile documentary you watched once. Ignorance is bliss, so you continue reading. You hear the sound again, only slightly louder. It's just my imagination, you tell yourself. More words consumed by your eyes. Again, the noise occurs, this time loud enough that you know something demonic in nature must have crawled inside your head. You turn... only to see this baby. Gurgling and hissing. Hissing. Please tell me in which culture a hissing baby is commonly accepted. Upon receiving information, I will gladly return this child to whatever pagan society it came from.

     Now, the other two kids actually speak our language. The middle kid speaks normal phrases, like "Gotta go potty," and "give me Cheetos." However, his absolute all-time favorite phrase is "no." He says no to everything. Even if he actually means yes. For example, my aunt was talking to him the other day.

     "*Nebuchadnezzar, do you want some ice cream?" (*Name may have been changed to protect identity.)
     Very fervently, "No!"
     "Oh, alright then."
     Child proceeds to get upset.
     "Why didn't you give me some?"
     "You said you didn't want any."
     "Yes I do, I said no!"

     This is just one of the many circumstances where mis-communication occurs. I thought he was kinda bad, until the oldest (the four year old) said a couple things.

     She came up to me and my aunt after just getting out of the bathroom. My aunt asked her if she was all done going, and the small person was all... "My vagina is gone."

     As I type this I still laugh. I don't know why it was so funny, maybe it's just because she's only four, or maybe it was because she kept going.

     "You're vagina is gone?"
     "Yeah, gone. And empty. My vagina is empty and gone, mom."

     My aunt's laughing, and I am too, albeit nervously. On the inside, I was just like

     Little kids.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

I Like Planes

     My aunt and uncle are extremely generous people. I honestly think that fact will be their undoing. For reasons known only to them, they felt it necessary to fly me down to Arizona, on their wallet, and have me stay in their home for a prolonged period of time. Pretty sweet deal. Fly, eat, and sleep. Free. Pro bono. Whatever that means.

     Anyways, I was in the great state of Utard. I stepped out of my small smelly house into the not so healthy inversion of Salt Lake City. Great way to start out the morning, by the way! Nothing says "good morning!" like a deep, hearty inhalation of gaseous DEATH. I'm already kinda asthmatic, so the SLC air just sent me into this stage of oh-gosh-please-have-mercy-on-my-soul. After braving the treacherous outdoors, I finally found myself at the airport. I'm not really sure what happened in between leaving the house and arriving at the airport, however. I guess the whole situation was similar to the first dream sequence in Inception. (Note: I was not drunk. I think.)

     Whenever I travel by plane, I use this one giant scuba diving bag that my dad won over a radio contest. It fits nine shirts, six pairs of pants, twenty-one pairs of socks, an equal number of underclothes, and occasionally a llama if I'm feeling generous. I always felt pretty cool using it, even though not a single thought towards design was put into it. As I was meandering through the terminal, however, I became incredibly self conscious. In my head, the bag was a giant vortex that contained everything I could ever use. To everybody else, it was this ugly black zip-lock bag on wheels. I experienced a new emotion: suit-case envy. I suddenly yearned to fit in, which at the time meant having a bag that sat on four wheels instead of two, was an even rectangle and not a deformed marshmallow, and maybe had *gasp* a color scheme.

     I got over my feelings of personal disappointment, and dropped off my bag. My feelings of anguish quickly returned when even the lady who put it on the conveyor belt gave me a look of disappointment in my choice of luggage.

     My gate always seems to be as far as possible from the entrance to the terminal. It wasn't a walk of shame, but being in gate B15 never seemed more distant. I'm pretty sure it'd take Usain Bolt three hours to sprint there. It amazes me even now how I got there on time.

     As I waited for the precious vehicle of aerial transportation, I waited. This family sitting to my right was just talking about the flight, when their little four-year-old blonde girl started sharing her opinion.


     Hah hah hah, yes you are.

     With my luck, her and her mom sat right behind me. That's fine. But literally five seconds before the plane moved, she began making a noise. A terrible, ungodly sound. I didn't know that that pitch could possibly be made by any living creature, let alone this four year old girl. I've seen glass objects break in cartoons, but I was genuinely afraid that the windows on the plane would shatter, even if they were made of plastic. Through the unearthly wailing, I was able to slightly understand these words (warning, rough translation):


     I would use exclamation marks, but I feel that they wouldn't do the sound justice. I'm fairly certain that in between her wails of apparent agony I heard the demonic whispering of Satan. And Sauron. And the daleks. Actually, just to play it safe, if Satan, Sauron, and the daleks all had some weird love child, that's what her unintelligible rantings sounded akin to.

     After exactly one hour thirty-two minutes and forty-six seconds, the plane touched down in Phoenix. The wheels hit the runway. IMMEDIATELY, I kid you not, as soon as the rubber hit the road, it was as if the evil spirit parted ways with her soul. Where seconds before she had been continuing her Satanic death spell, she was now playing peek-a-boo. With nobody. Regardless, the demon of her tormented body appeared to have left. Those fifteen seconds of the flight were the most welcome and peaceful that I had ever dared participate in.

     I desired to kiss the ground once I got off the plane, but then again, I didn't know if the sadistic spirit transferred by contact.

     No one will ever know.