Letters To Companies I Hate - Day 2

Ok, so I quickly realized that with the pressures of work, a developing romantic interest and work, writing one embittered and resentful letter per day is highly a unrealistic expectation. I will, however, do my best to keep up with the demand. Please don’t hate me if you don’t get 30 letters this month.

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Dear FLDS (Fundamentalist Latter-Day Saints, or as I like to say, the Fake Latter-Day Saints) Church,

I can’t help but notice your ever growing popularity with the media over the recent weeks. All of this hoopla about polygamist raids and cousins marrying cousins and whatnot… it’s really starting to piss me off.

Ironically, the reasons spawning my irritation are not likely to be the same as the majority of those other critics who refer to you a mentally unsound, and grossly morally backwards institution. The fact of the matter is that I already knew you were mentally unsound and morally backwards. I knew that polygamy was still being practiced in some little sick and twisted po-dunk community out there. I also knew that one day the shit would hit the fan, someone would expose you… and that’s when the mud flinging would begin.

Well, that day is today, and now the negative publicity for your church is inevitably resulting in negative publicity for mine.

The world is disgusted by the “Fundamentalist Mormons”. I hear it over and over every day. “Fundamentalist Mormons, Fundamentalist Mormons, Fundamentalist Mormons!” Did the creators of your church eat stupid pills the day they were to decide on a name? Seriously, I can see it now… *wavy flashback effect*…

“Hey, since our church stopped allowing men to marry as many women as we want, why don’t we just leave and start our own church where we can do whatever we want?”

“You’re a genius! Let’s do it! But we’ll need a name. What should we call ourselves?”

“Hmmmm, well, we want it to sound fun so people will join… and we want it to sound smart so people will think we’re smart… HEY! How bout the Fun-da-mentalist Mormons!”

“I like it! It’s original, unique and not at all similar to any other religion we may have belonged to in the past and would never want to be associated with in the future.”

Seriously, you just don’t get more screwed up than that. We don’t want anything to do with the Blue Team anymore, so we are forming our own team! It’s called the Fundamentalist Blue Team… nobody will suspect a thing. Argh! (Grunt of frustration.)

I guess more than anything, I just hate it when someone realizes that their ship is sinking fast so they look around and pull anyone they can get their hands on down with them. Millions of wholesome, good standing Mormons the world over now have a need to defend their beliefs to the skeptic and the unfamiliar because of your inane inability to think sensibly.

Do us all a favor and get your own freaking original name and learn take responsibility for your own actions.

-Bags

A note to the rest of the world: Mormons don’t practice polygamy. Fundamentalist Mormons are not Mormons any more than Tom Cruise is one… but they are just as crazy.

2 comments.

Humorously Depressing Image of the Day - Day 22 and The NBA Playoffs

Tonight, as we watched game two of the Jazz vs. Rockets playoff series on TNT, my neighbor Jake made an astute observation. TNT does a lot of self promotion during the commercial breaks. For some reason, they choose to promote such shows as The Closer or The House of Payne.Honestly, I remember seeing ads run for The House of Payne during last year’s playoffs, and I was absolutely positive that it wouldn’t last more than 3 or 4 episodes. Surprisingly, the show must have a real following. This means that there are more idiots in our country than I thought (which is a very scary thing to think about).

It just so happened that Jake made his observation after a too-long House of Payne commercial. He announced, “The worst thing about watching the finals on TNT is having to sit through all these stupid commercials. I really don’t want anything to do with rednecks or black people.”

Bravo Jake. Bravo. You said something so inane and unexpected that it made it to my blog. Gold star for you.

On a semi-related note, I think I’d rather watch an Flava’ of Love marathon or get kicked in the junk than watch one episode of House of Payne.

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The Pressure Is Getting To Me

Sunday, it was nearly 80 degrees. Eighty degrees makes a happy Bags.

Yesterday I grumbled about the snow. It’s not supposed to snow in the middle of April.

This morning, I woke up to 32 degree weather. I did so begrudgingly. Upon arriving to campus, however, I was overcome with the scent of freshly cut grass.

My brain is going to explode if I don’t get some seasonal stability here soon.

Also, you can expect my blog posts to suck for the next few days, as finals are approaching and my ability to think creatively is being squished by a plethora of pressing deadlines, bowel irregularities and yoga classes.

6 comments.

A Weekend For The Record Books

I took last Friday off and spent the long weekend in Las Vegas.  I have been to Vegas many times in my life, but none of those times were as fun, relaxing or unusually unpredictable as this one.  Normally a Vegas vacation involves casinos, inhaling other peoples smoke in casinos, listening to other people gamble in casinos, tactfully avoiding looking at half-naked women in casinos and sleeping in questionably sanitary conditions.  Had you told me before this weekend that the popular side of Vegas (the Strip) was really just the ugly step-sister of the real Vegas, I would have thought you were as insane as an obsessed Carrot Top fan. (Does Carrot Top even have fans?)

The proof, however, is in the pudding.  I spent 3 solid days in Vegas without even stepping on the Strip.  My weekend consisted of amazing food (In-N-Out), amazing music (The Beatles on vinyl), amazing friends, and naps.  I was in bed long before the stroke of midnight every night, and I even got to go to a park, lay out a blanket and sleep under a tree in 80 degree weather.  Now I know you’re jealous.

As great as the trip was, it wasn’t lacking in unfortunate circumstances.  It’s typical that after a near-perfect long weekend that the diarrhea demon would come a-knockin’ on our door.  I think nearly everyone in the car, at one point or another, struggled with a bad case of the runs.  Nothing is worse than sitting in a car with the feeling that you’ve got a family of squirrels jumping around in your stomach in a fight over the last walnut of the season.  It kind of puts a damper on things, while adding an unsolicited dose of excitement to the journey.  Needless to say, I’m glad we’re home.

1 comment.

Three Years = 6 Dozen Donuts

Exactly 3 years ago today, I was on the airplane leaving Santiago, Chile and headed towards the Atlanta Airport where I would see black people for the first time in 2 years, catch a transfer flight to Salt Lake and be smothered in kisses by my mother.

It was a strange feeling to take in on that plane. The last two years full of talking to crazy, half-drunk Chileans, eating more hot dogs and avocados than I though humanly possible, and black boogers resulting from highly polluted air, were over. I sat on that plane with a dozen or so other missionaries wondering what would happen next.

Some of us walked out of that terminal with scholarships waiting for us at prestigious universities for the upcoming semester. Others had their new or old cars waiting for them by the curb. Some would arrive home to girlfriends and get married in a few months time. Others would arrive home to not-girlfriends and still get married in a few months time.

Personally, I arrived home to a happy family, an old ‘87 Honda Civic Hatchback lovingly named “Wicket,” and a girlfriend who had gotten engaged to another man 2 weeks earlier without having the courtesy to inform me. I had little or not direction in my life. Just a pair of worn out shoes, some pimpin’ polyester ties and a newfound sense of freedom.

Ironically enough, exactly 3 years ago today while sitting on my suitcases awaiting the arrival of the rest of my traveling buddies, Elder Callaway (a good friend and one of the senior couple missionaries) pulled me aside and bet me a dozen donuts that I would be married within 6 months of my arrival home.

Welp, Elder Callaway, it’s been 3 years. At a dozen donuts per every 6 months home, I calculate that you owe me 6 dozen donuts… read ‘em and weep!

To those of you who traveled with me on the eve of April 10th, happy 3 year anniversary!

-Elder Bagley

2 comments.

Sebastian Sasturain - El Rey De Los Boludos

For those of you who don’t speak Spanish, you can read about what I’m ranting about here. (The long and short of it is that some dude, aka. Sebastian Sasturain, in Argentina stole the template, files and content from one of my buddies. We are getting him back.)

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Ay! Sebastian Sasturain, eres tan boludo! A lo major, algun día buscarás por el internet tu propio nombre con la esperanza que encontrarás algo bien buena.Por cualquiera persona que no sepa de lo que estoy hablando. Le pillamos al Sebastian Sasturain en el hecho de robar el código de web de un amigo. Sebastian Sasturain, el ‘programador y deseñador’ es un fracaso y un boludo lleno de crema de otros boludos.

Se puede encontrar unos ejemplos aqui.

Aquí esta una imagen del sítio de Justin Hileman. Y como un milagro, el sítio de Sebastian Sasturain se ve exactamente igual. Aun el imagen de Justin que está en el espacio designado por ‘contacto’ es igual. Tal vez son jimelos, seperados durante nacimiento. O tál vez Sr. Sebastian Sasturain es un ladron.

Espero que si hay alguna persona que está buscando a un programador, y está considerando Sebastian Sasturain por el trabajo, que este les abre los ojos a un hombre que, a lo mejor, no trabajara por su dinero, pero roba.

Ché, Seba… cresca unos cojones y haz to propio trabajo.

4 comments.

I Hate Chapstick

Last week I did laundry. Not only did I ‘do’ laundry, but I screwed up the entire freakin’ load. As I hauled the batch of my favorite clothes out of the drier, I saw that they were covered in nasty, oily dark splotches. Yup folks, I left a tube of chapstick in my pocket. It virtually exploded, coating my threads in a healthy film of terribleness.

Apparently the stains left by the demon chapstick are harder to remove than mustard, blood or the sin of murder. My favorite t-shirts and some of my only pants no longer can be worn in the public sphere without being suspect to heavy questioning and blatant ridicule.

Chapstick, I hate you. May you burn in hell.

5 comments.

Mustache of the Day - Day 12

What’s with dictators and their mustaches? Seriously… get a load of this:

-Adolf Hitler -

He and his unique ‘Hitler-stash’ decided to cleanse the world of the Jews. In World War II, he and his Nazi regime was responsible for over 11 million deaths worldwide.

He is also likely to be one of the most despicable creatures ever to walk to the face of the planet. His life ended in suicide, as did the lives of most of his mistresses.

He obviously had a way with people, and he probably smelt of lavender.

-Saddam Hussein -

Saddam, the extreme Socialist Iraqi leader was proudly responsible for roughly two million (yes, that’s a 2, with 6 zeros after it) deaths in his lifetime. I’m sure his mother would be proud.

What do you want to bet me that he was picked on in elementary school, and killing huge amounts of people was his way of filling that void where his self esteem should have been? He also probably sat down to pee.

-Joseph Stalin -

Stalin and his posse of Communist Revolutionaries had a kill tally of approximately 20 million, and that’s not counting the 14.5 million people that starved to death during his quest to overthrow the government.

To his credit, he DID help overthrow Nazi Germany and end World War II. I don’t think that balances the scales though.

-Ernesto “el Che” Guevara de la Serna -

This dude, is crazy enough that he wasn’t only an influential political leader, but he was smart (and crazy) enough to become the military theorist and leader of the Cuban internationalist guerrilla war machine.

I couldn’t find a kill count for this dude, but the word on the street is that they couldn’t keep count.

Viva Cuba!

So, what’s the deal with mustaches and evil killing machines? No clue. If you find out, let me know. It would probably be a good idea, though, to keep an eye out for psychotic, power-hungry politicians with iconic facial hair in the future.

1 comment.

Mustache of the Day - Day 6

As some of you may know, I’ve been in a rather villainous mood over the last week or so. For this reason, I have chosen to feature one of history’s great villain’s mustaches for day 6 of March Mustache Madness.

Now, when I say that I’ve been villainous I’m not referring about all the times I’ve gone out trying to kill little kids, terrorize Indians or wrestle with alligators. No, I’m talking about something entirely different.

Every man at one point or another has been a villain to someone else. It seems that no matter how badly we try to be nice, things can very easily blow up in our faces. When it comes to Captain Hook, we really don’t have much back story. All we know is what our hero, Pan, wants us to see. To be honest with you, if I were Captain Hook, and some pansy boy who flew around in green tights with a little fairy and a group of annoying midgets cut off my hand and fed it to a crocodile, I would be a little pissy too.

I guess my point is that sometimes even the nicest (and often the not-nicest) guys come off as real pricks. Sometimes we lose sight of what’s really important and become absorbed in what we want rather than thinking what will benefit us most in the long run. Sometimes we act, you know, human. It’s at these times that I think, “Hey, I’ll bet right now (your name here) thinks I’m a total jerk.” Then I say the familiar phrase made popular to me by my cousin Garrett, “Ya win some… ya lose some.”

So, next time you’re thinking of the most current jerk (even if it’s not me), I hope you a vision of Captain Hook’s mustache enters your mind, and you realize that it could have been you that cut off the ornery git’s hand… and that’s why he’s a villain…but to his friends, he’s just James (the codfish). And who can hate a codfish, really?

P.S. Thanks Sarah for the great mustache idea. It came at the perfect time.

1 comment.

Wifing Skills

A few months back I bumped into my old friend, Emily, at the local Costco. After reminiscing on the good old days of summers gone, she asked me if I had been working on my ‘Wifing Skills.’ For those of you like me who had never heard the term ‘Wifing Skills’ before, they are the things that single dudes do to convince women to marry them, such as cooking, the dishes, changing diapers etc.

I guess women who are on the marriage market are analyzing men more than I had thought. I decided that it would be a good idea to compile a list of ‘Wifing Skills,’ or a marriage resume if you will, to see how accurate I am with this whole what-women-want thing.

Wifing Skills (What Women Want)

• Cooking - Cooking is a plus. Being able to cook something other than ramen noodles and easy-mac means bonus points.
• Children - A man who can play with a child, but have a mentality above that of the child he is playing with is a desired trait from what I hear.
• Poop - Along with being able to play with children, one must be able change their diapers. Once again, bonus points go to being both able AND willing to change them.
• Pride & Prejudice - Know who Jane Austin is gets you the standard points. Watching the movies gets your extra points. You hit the jackpot if you can name the books she wrote, you have read them, and are willing to talk about them with your spouse… in private… under blood oaths that the fact that you have read her books will never, under any circumstances be revealed to your friends.
• The Throne - Be able and willing to assist gravity in its daunting task of pulling the toilet seat down at the accelerated rate of 9.8 m./sec.^2. For some reason, that porcelain seat wields an incredible amount of power… especially when left up.
• Protector & Destroyer - The ability to kill anything that falls under the category of creepy or crawly. If you suffer from arachnophobia, you may be splitting hairs. Some girls may think you’re a complete pansy and want nothing to do with you. Others may find it attractive that you are willing to confront your fears to protect them from big, hairy, poisonous man-eating spiders.
• Wrong! - Be able to admit you’re wrong… even when you’re not. Not only do women love being right, but they love not having to prove to you that they are right when they are, in all reality, not right. It just saves time, cause we all know she is going to get her way in the end anyway, right?
• Culture - Be comfortable enough with your manhood to be able to watch other men in very tight spandex prance around on stage whilst lifting up women who flap their arms and can’t walk on anything but their toes.
• Sensitivity - Even though most girls say they want a tough guy, deep inside, they are convinced that they want their big, burly hunk of man man meat to have a sensitive side. Shedding a tear or two whilst watching “A Walk To Remember,” or “Charlie” can help… even if you have to poke yourself in the eye while she’s not looking to get it started.

So far, I think this list is fairly accurate, but by no means is it complete. Please leave a comment on this post if you can think of any other reasons that help make us bearers of the ‘Y’ chromosome husband material.

6 comments.