Big 12

There is almost nothing I'd like to see more than for BYU to join the Big 12 in football.

If that happened then we would see a BYU / WVU showdown. My two favorite teams pitted against each other.

If it came to that I would be cheering for BYU, but only on the inside. On the outside I would be cheering for WVU purely because I want to hold a big sign at the game that says:

"Not all Mormons root for BYU"

I mean c'mon, that sign is awesome and would virtually guarantee a little TV time.

Varieties of this sign would also work if I were Catholic and didn't like Notre Dame. Or if I were a truly terrible terrible person, but I didn't support Utah.

PB#

Sammy, my niece, and I bought paint by number kits this past summer. She eventually went back to California and I toiled on alone for a time.
However, it didn't take long for paint by numbering (PB# for short) to take hold among my friends Janna, Jill, Cindy, and even Brigham.
Its the new thing everyone, get into it now before it sweeps the nation and then you can say, "I was doing it before it was a nation-wide craze."

BEFORE:


AFTER:

That reminds me of a story that happened 5 years ago...

During BYU's Education Week I typically walked around with a walkie talkie clipped to my back pocket. This was one of those heavy duty walkies that weighed a ton and had a decent range that reached at least as far from the Wilk to where I took naps at my apartment. (I figure the statute of limitations is over on that little bit of incriminating evidence)
So that is the background:
Anyway I went to use the restroom one afternoon during a class break and ended up standing in a queue to use the urinal. When it came to my turn (at the middle urinal of course) I unbuttoned my trousers and immediately had the weight of the walkie, still clipped to my back pocket, take my pants straight down to the floor....with about ten other bathroom goers standing immediately behind me.
What do you do in that situation?
If you're like me you just lean into the situation, act like you absolutely intended to have your pants on the ground, and then challenge society to rethink its stodgy antiquated urinal rules.

Not true

I recently had the pleasure of attending an intimate dinner party with one of the greatest actors of our generation: Mr. Tom Hanks.

The following is my account of the evening-

Location: Ranch-style home nestled within a small valley on a sprawling estate not too far from Ithaca, NY. Breathtaking.
Host: Arrived twenty-minutes late reeking of gin and with an armful of loose prescription pills.
Other Guests: Odd collection of east coast elite, personal family friends, and Hollow Earth theory adherents.
Home: Well maintained pre-war home with a modernized kitchen. The house tour was unfortunately cut short when host was required to "take care" of unexplained groans emanating from crawlspace.
Decor: A surprising number of antique wood-rimmed bicycles mounted on the walls. Eight by my count.
Hors d'oeurves: So-called "caviar" tasted suspiciously like flour-thickened dish water.
Salad: Contained an alarming number of bones.
Entree: A delicate chicken marsala served atop a bed of garlic and rosemary mashed potatoes. Truly first-rate.
Dessert: One exceptionally large candied apple that was shared communally.
Cocktails: When asked for a virgin margarita, host cracked one guest over the head with a pistol.
After Dinner Activities: An obviously drunk Hanks loudly challenging guests to Indian Leg wrestle.
Party Favors: Sweet, if not a bit unsettling, personalized shadow-box frame filled with guest's trash from previous week.
Conversation: Stimulating.

Thrifty Thief

I believe there is a special circle of Hell reserved for those that steal the CD out of its case at D.I.

Hey thief, you owe me a $2 copy of Kid A and whether its in this life or the next, I will collect.

A steadily growing list

I've been ruminating on this topic for some time now.

Happy Bee-day Jenny

Note: The stunts you are about to see were performed by professionals or while under the supervision of professional. Do not try this at home.

So the electric fly swatter didn't work out in quite the way we anticipated. We eventually had to have the other person force our fingers through the unelectrified outer-mesh to the current carrying and skin-sizzling heart of the swatter.

The old-fashioned manual swatter used execution-style worked wonders though. (Full-volume to hear how brave Josh was.)

Happy Bee-day Jenny!