Vermont Naked

Listen. There is the responsible thing to do, and then there is the fun thing to do. For us, it is not the typical matter of choosing one or the other, but rather pursuing the latter right up until it conflicts with the former. Marriage would be one of those obligations were our friends' "engagements" actually real. Hence round three of the fake bachelor parties:

After a late start, we ended up in Burlington, VT around 5pm and started detailing the logistical minutiae: where to go, what to eat, where we should stay. Our ideal hotel would be that with the closest proximity to Church Street, the local hot spot for nightlife. The first one we found was crackwhore-sheik, resembling a double-wide trash heap with boarded windows and an infectious aura of Malaria. We decided to put Scabies Motel into the maybe-watching-the-walls-bleed-could-be-fun category, and moved on. Finding only overpriced suites, we ventured further from Church and decided we would gladly suffer a $20 cab fare for a $200 cheaper room at the Comfort Inn. We were given the key to room 131, but when we arrive at the door, the desk clerk is waiting to inform us that 131 is occupied, and gives us new keys to 143. Being veterans of hotel shenanigans, we immediately raid a housekeeping closet and acquire an additional folding bed to accompany our two Queens.
In our new room, we start to pre-game, while mike calls the front desk to inquire if the hotel offers a shuttle service. It turns out that they actually do...but only to deliver people to and from the local hospital. We instantaneously remember that our good friend "Timmy" has just had surgery, and use this to further tempt our souls into the fiery depths of hell by taking our free ride.

Church Street does not disappoint. In our now blissfully inebriated states, we shamefully lie to strangers inquiring about the silly hats perched atop our noodles, a cause for them to vicariously celebrate Will and Kristen's upcoming nuptials with us.
We meet Sam the Magician as he is tearing down his set and convince him to do just one more trick. It's on. He grabs Will and places our bachelor in an open area, advising him not to move from that spot. He then grabs a big bottle of lighter fluid and begins furiously dousing the ground in a tight circle around Will's feet. Will starts panicking and I muse at how great a story about him on fire will be for our personal history books. "Just take this one for the team! They can do wonders with skin grafts these days!" After pooling a flammable moat, he leads off with a wide trail of fuel and stops, picking up 3 objects. It is dark and hard to see, but the sounds and silhouettes give away that he is holding swords. Within a moment's time, they are now 3 FLAMING swords. The death of our friend is sure to be an entertaining one.

Magic Sam starts juggling them, throwing them higher and higher, behind his back, twirling and spinning as the anticipation of a fatal mistake looms over the captivated silent crowd. Up again, Down again, whizzing dangerously close to the ground, and then caught! Will is gulping in breaths like an asthmatic and is no doubt covered in his own urine at this point. Sam catches the final sword, and Will expels a massive sigh of relief. It is at this very moment that Sam throws the swords down onto the pooled fuel to set our man aflame! Will's face turns ghostly white, his eyes bulge wide, and his jaw drops wider. A giant roar of flames tearing down its course toward Will's feet is what we expect, but as the swords clatter against the ground, nothing happens. When we realize it had been water, the crowd erupts with uproarious laughter! Will lives to burn another day and we explain that the overwhelming discomfort he has just felt is the same as actually getting married.

Starving from our journey, we stop at a Gyro stand for some grub. I love lamb. My God , do I ever. But I don't want a whole meal, so I ask the shopkeep in his puffy vest and cabby hat how much he charges for a just handful of delicious meats, standing before him with my palms cupped together, gesticulating the portion I desire. Wish granted! AND on the house - Double bonus! I eat from my hands like I'm adjusting an oxygen mask, and we begin harassing tables of people seated al fresco.
Two such lovely ladies, Astrid and Merran, invite us to join them for a drink, and we accept. After chatting to these spectacular girls, Quebecois by way of the Yukon, we piggyback race to Red Square where a charity event is taking place. They are about to start a Twister contest, and this is temptation that cannot be fought. I am the second one out. Fine - I didn't want to win anyway! George can barely stand at this point, but somehow manages to take 3rd place out of the 30 or so people involved. We dance with our respective ladies for a bit and are having a blast when they announce that they are going to have a speed-dancing competition; I assume this just means arhythmically moving my legs really fast . Mike and I begin to battle it out, legs kicking, arms flailing, crowds cheering (though likely not for us) until the song ends. Mike takes first, and I credit myself with a close second. In hindsight, I think my 2nd place was out of two.

We part ways with two of the coolest girls I've ever met, and it is bittersweet that we must trudge on through the night without them. At Nectar's, another big dance bar, we bump into a bachelorette party that is ridiculously less fun. We dance until close, cause a scene in our hats, and head back to the hotel - far from retiring for the evening.
The weather is crisp but fantastic, and I have yet to find a pool in Boston. They exist, but are kept secret by buoyant leprechauns, I suspect. As we have paid for the room and the pool has no gate, it is perfect for a 3am dip. In our boxer briefs we sneak around the building and dive in, save George who returned hours earlier to pass out. It's great to be in the water, but as we forgot towels, the trek back to the room is freezing. We decide that as penalty for George's early night, we'll tackle him, leaving him equally soaking wet and freezing. He now shares our discomfort, and our roughhousing somehow escalates to where Orange soda and Pert Plus spills all over both beds, and a thrown pillow shatters the plastic innards of a lampshade! We may be retarded. It is 530 am, and finally exhausted, we flip the beds to dry sides and crash.

Checkout comes too early, and George, being the only one well rested, aggressively wakes us to clean up after the shampoo battle royale from the night before. Mike leaves without saying anything, and bitterly we assume it's to avoid helping. The lampshade is in dire condition, and George being the reason is left to figure out a solution. A light goes on, and by innate douchebag reasoning, one presents itself. Down the hall, he finds that our original key to 131 still works! He hurriedly rushes in our lampshade 'o disrepair and out one that still resembles an actual lampshade (write this down for Yom Kippur, G).
We wait and no Mike. We call - no Mike. He has been gone for over an hour and the breakfast Gods are beckoning fiercely, so we leave. Another hour passes as we lounge and eat, and still no word. Daylight is hastily burning, and we have a Brewery to go to! C'mon Mike! Sometime later, and sufficiently intoxicated from free Magic Hat beer (1pm), we hear from mike who we make take a $45 cab to find us. A just penalty for his disappearing act, we say...and we can't really drive anyway. At this point it becomes a good idea to acquire capriciously placed mannequin hands as souvenirs from Magic Hat, and so we do...though without any real purpose. Finally reunited we leave, just the 5 of us and a pair of hands.

Drunken road trips with good friends are a volatile mixture, and as such, we immediately begin backseat shenanigans. Kidneys are punched, deadlegs are given, pumpkin seeds are thrown, and triceps and nipples are ruthlessly pinched. We start playing a game: Sid Hoffman or Sid Frenchman? You simply ask your opponent - if the person is thinking the opposite of your guess, you let him slap you. If you guess correctly, you slap him. There's no way to be certain, but just because we are hitting each other doesn't mean we don't trust each other. This lasts mere seconds before Will, who's driving, has had enough. He locks the windows and doors and hot boxes the car. Not your stoner-smoke hotbox, but rather blasting the heater on high until the cab feels more akin to a sauna. His unorthodox modus operandi works, and we can barely stay awake, let alone fight each other. We sweat profusely, secede, and begin pathetically begging for mercy. He refuses to yield, and we are left with only one option: to discard layers of clothing. Two can play at this game, you rogue! Soon every sweaty pore will be in direct contact with your cloth seats! Huh Ha! This lasts for what feels like days, slowly dying in our underoos. He demands that we apologize, and though hesitant, the heat has successfully melted away our stubbornness. He unlocks the windows, and we are finally free! I put my head directly into the wind, and watch as my overpriced aviators are whisked off my face and underneath the tires of a following truck.
How could this get any worse?
This rhetorical question is answered by the approach of flashing Vermont Highway Patrol lights. The glare strobes into the car, and my immediate thought is, "I am not wearing any pants." I could see tomorrows headlines already: "Naked Men Arrested on State Highway!" or "Nude Males found Bruised and Beaten in Backseat of Car! Why are there pumpkin seeds everywhere and what were they being used for? Details at 10." Mike and George must have had similar thoughts, as we all three started rushing, as discretely as possible, to get dressed. Then, like God's own mercy, the Trooper exited the freeway.
Disaster narrowly averted, with let out a communal sigh of relief. I still have the swimming bug, and ask Will, "If we behave, can we find a lake to go jump in?" He says yes, but I have my doubts. We are no longer at war, but our alliance is too fresh to trust. I fall asleep, and wake up as the car comes to a stop. I crack an eyelid, and before me lies quite the sight to behold! A lake! A big lake, with water and everything! Hot damn! Never having successfully redressed ourselves, we spill out of the doors with vehement enthusiasm, properly attired for the plunge. The feeling of rejuvenation tingles through my toes and up my spine as I dive in the chilled water - this is heaven. We sit, reveling in that the beers we sip are warmer than our bodies. I cut my foot and realize that the ground is comprised of large, perfect skipping stones! We start throwing them, until George announces that he just pooped in the water and forces us to scurry out - refreshed, amused, and terrified of the biproduct of George's binge drinking.

We still have no towels, so we continue driving as we had before, without pants or shirts. The quest for the Holy Lake now fulfilled, a high priority quest for food had taken its place. It had become so routine enough over the last several hours that not one of us questioned riding in the car so scantily clad...routine enough that I decided pants were not necessary to eat at the McDonald's we had just found either. I mean, come on, it's Mickey Dee's. So I throw on a shirt and saunter in. I get half way through the line, when the manager notices my apparel and abruptly shouts, "Hey, you can't come in here without SHOES on!" I chuckle, and just to reiterate that I heard his concern correctly: "Wait, so I don't have to wear pants, but I DO have to wear shoes?" Yes. Though certainly anecdotal, thinking about the sanitary conditions of the dirty fast food floor, I acquiesce. Outside, I find a lonely scrap of some deeply disguised sense of pride, and even put on jeans. Our group would almost reflect socially acceptable practices were mike and I not assembling the "greatest McFeastowich known to man"; A big mac stuffed with french fries, tucked sloppily between a double cheeseburger. Neither of us can stifle more than a bite or two, because despite its towering ingenuity, it's still McDonald's food. It quickly becomes the McTrashowich.
Two bites is enough to make you feel terrible for the remaining car ride home. Worn down from the last few fatiguing days, the car is finally silent and still; introspective. For whatever reason, I feel sad as I stare blindly out the passenger window and silent tears stream down my face. I look over and see mike crying too, inexplicably. Neither of us know why, but maybe that's how great friends work? Though touching, it comes to an abrupt halt with a single question: Sid Hoffman or Sid Frenchman?

http://www.homestarrunner.com/sbemail81.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K23RWyRsl00

You Dirty Rat

So I had just come home from out of town... i don't remember where, so for excitement's sake, well say uh, Portugal. It was lovely. Upon my return, Mike tells me that frankenstein had brought a huge rat into the house while I was away. I don't believe him - this was SLC not dirty NYC - we don't have giant sewer rats.
The next morning I wake up to see Frank having a staring contest with a clothing bag of stuff i was getting rid of in the hall. Anytime this ADHD cat is focused on anything, it generally ends poorly for all involved. This was no exception. Thinking that he had his weekly mouse/ bird (of which we kept a running tally on the fridge; 9/4 at the time), i pulled the bag away from the wall to see a HUGE freaking rat. "Holy crap," were my only words as I pushed the bag back toward the wall with my foot. Curse Mike for being right! The rat was back - its body the size of a 20oz coke bottle with an almost equal length pink, worm-like tail.
My interference was the catalyst for the rat's escape attempt, and he bolted into the living room with Frank in hot pursuit. There he cornered himself under a table and sat in defense position staring down frank, the great hunter (so great that I still have no clue how he carried that thing in to begin with).
Mike had caught it in a big box, and had ran it 5 blocks away and dumped it out. I was now scrambling down the driveway in my boxer briefs to grab the same box - my neighbors staring at me like i am crazy. So I grab the box and a my putter as the instrument with which to guide him into said box. Meanwhile Neighbor mike and son come in to see what all the commotion is - My question: "what the hell do I do with it once I get it in the box?" To which his only response was, "well, you are holding a golf club..."
That is no good. I am no wuss about most things, and I have no trouble killing stuff like bugs or strippers (because they're already dead on the inside), but listening to bones crunching beneath my fingers is a little much for me. So I corner Ratonio and start shewing him into the box fairly aggressively with the club - the whole time he is nipping at it and HISSING at me. Yeah - I didn't know what sound a pissed off rat made either. I get it in the box, shut the lid and take a deep breath. Now What?
I decide to call the toughest person I know, my mom, for advice. She surely will come to my rescue. "Mom, I just caught a huge (expletive deleted) rat! What do I do?" Calmly, she asks, "Do you have a shovel?" Dammit! No help again. I guess was going to have to do this on my own.
But I am smarter than some stupid rat, right? I will simply outwit the bastard - princess bride style. So I go the the bathroom medicine cabinet, break out a bottle of sleeping pills, grind them down in a mortar and pestle, and mix it into some peanut butter on top of a tortilla. Genius! Now it's lunchtime for both of us. Worried that he may try and chew through the box, I put it in Kevin's enclosed shower in the basement, and go out for grub.
An hour passes, and I am excited to go home and find Ratos Ratos Jr in his eternal slumber of doom! No. Such. Luck. That little SOB didnt even touch the stuff. So onto Plan B. Oh wait, I don't have a plan B...
The next brilliant idea I have is to throw him into the big city garbage can, and pouring in bleach and ammonia: a simple mustard gas death-combo. This seems like the best possible way... for about 5 minutes. Upon further review, I decide this may be a terrible idea. I don't know what its effects are - aside from killing you, and I only want HIM to die, not both of us. So the move becomes poison for just one of us, with the classic D-Con waiting game. I really don't give a damn if he knows it's poison or not, eventually he'll get so hungry he'll eat it anyway, and I'll have to win the war he has waged! I double check to make sure the shower door is snugly secured, and head to the store.



Albertson's Aisle Five: I am looking down at an array of blessed pest products that should help me finally alleviate my problem; his life. This is the moment when Beth calls to see what I am doing - "Can't talk, buying poison, killing rats."
"WHAT? Aaron, if you kill that rat I am not having sex with you for TWO WEEKS."
Abstinence = Aaron's Kryptonite. I sit in stunned silence on the other end of the phone for a solid 40 seconds before trying to renegotiate, "but baby!?" .... "TWO. WEEKS."
I should never have answered that phone! She says that there are places that will take it in humanely. I remind her its a rat, not a puppy, but she is insistent. She also thinks its kind of cute and names it Templeton. Shoot me now. Another amount of time passes, and this has been all i have done all day. Beth calls and confirms that no place will take our disease ridden sewer monster. I feign surprise with a playful facetiousness. They do tell her some fun facts about rats though - like that they can sniff their way back up to 9 miles.
And so the headache grows. The only solution in Beth's gorgeous little eyeballs, is to drive it beyond 9 miles away and let it go. The box has been getting dripped on the shower for damn near 4 hours now and I am worried about its integrity. Beth arrives at my house and we quickly transfer Templeton into an old kitchen garbage can - duct tape the lid closed and start driving. I reset my odometer and drive him 12 miles, just for good measure, up Emigration Canyon. I hear him snarling through his yellowed, jagged teeth as I pick the trash can up, and decide its best to come back for it later... like when it's empty. I cut the tape, give a quick love kick to the can's side and let him go...right where I end up moving 6 months later. Fortunately, we never met again and the only reminder of him was the new category on Frank's death tally:
9 mice, 4 birds, 1-2 huge freaking rats.

A Week in a Monastery (pt 1): Blue Man Group

Monks:
They Came. They Saw.
They Conquered Boston.
Monks are most often represented as devout buddhist men like the Dalai Lama, living at high altitudes in Tibet, where they never speak or have fun. Anyone who knows our household or our vices can predict that our "monks" are the exact opposite. They are rather our close crew of friends from SLC who happened to wear robes to our Halloween party one year. Here is Part One of their recent trip to Boston:

Day One: "The Don" arrived bright and early at the crack of 9:00am. This is abnormally early to be awake, but since it was a celebratory reunion, I greeted him in my pajamas like any true friend would - with shots lined up along the countertop.
This was going to be the start of an exhausting week.

After pouring a solid set of starter shots down the hatch, we energetically and enthusiastically began our trek into Boston. With a couple of 1/2 pint flasks, we hit Newbury st to check out the local talent and ended up in front of Trinity Church - which seems to be where we always accidentally end up. Low and Behold, a hot dog cart awaits our anxious stomachs and we grab the best they offer - a sausage dog covered in sauteed green peppers and onions. We take a seat on a bench and begin to enjoy our tasty snack, when the local transient population took a liking to our presence and our lunch. "That looks goooood. How much d'ja get that fo?" Their verbal disbelief that we paid $5.50 each lasted a solid 5 minutes. "How much did you pay for that stereotype perpetuating Tall Can?" $2. Trust the homeless to know where to find the best deals on booze. After we ate in front of them and bullshit about only thing we had in common - alcoholism - we hit up a BosTix office. We found that we could get some half-price BlueMan tickets, and since this was a much better idea than buying homeless people hotdogs, so we spent our money here instead.
BLUE MAN: Naturally, we were wrecked out of our gourd for the show...which ended up being a peculiarly perfect way to do it. Neither Jesse nor I had been before and sat back, dumbfoundeed in disbelief that what we were witnessing was actually real. In addition to the cult-like, perfectly sync'd audience reading from the numerous scrolling marquees, was an eerie crowd participation that seemed too surreal to be legitimate. Example: Everyone, I mean EVERYONE (even the huge, tattooed muscleheads in biker leather) had tied on ninja headbands out of white crepe paper. The only saving grace to this overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by puppets was the fact that we could only see half of the stage, so any time something was out of sight, it helped ground us back to reality.
The best part though is the end. Our shitty, last row seats proved invaluable in the grand finale where 100's of trees were shamelessly wasted. Behind us were massive rolls of paper towels, suspended by paint rollers that had been wall mounted. At the end of the show, the Blue Men start unraveling these from all over the auditorium. A flood of paper rushes toward the stage from everywhere to create a sea of white in the center of this little theatre. Now we were participating ourselves. A lumberjack's abhorrence couldn't have fueled a faster killing of trees. After we finished our rolls, the couple next to us saw how much we enjoyed it and gave us theirs. Bad Idea. It was off the roller, so we now began tearing of huge lengths and transforming them into massive paper snowballs and beaning the rows of happy families in front of us without reservation. I don't know if I have ever smiled wider or laughed harder. A snowball execution of helpless, unknowing faces. I only wish I could have heard their tears over my roaring, maniacal laughter.

Great times at Good Time

It started out like any other day: I was plucking out pound after pound of nose hair and weaving it into lockets to send my fan club - the best way to spend your days off, trust me. On about my 30th one, I got an invitation to go to the closing celebration at Good Time - a veritable cornucopia of childhood nostalgia. I meditated for a moment in preparation of pummeling some fools in skee ball, then out the door to enjoy the final day this place would ever be open. (soon to be replaced by an Ikea! Hot damn!)
Naturally, this is a place best spent with lots of friends, so the mass text i sent got almost no response. Whatever. I make my own fun and it's really easy when you have ADD. There ended up being three of us (in addition to the dozen people I didn't take time to get to know.)
This place is in the industrial anus of the city. To get there, we went into the highest crime density part of Boston, ran across a 6-lane highway, passed a bunch of smokestacks (that looked casually simpson-esque), and trekked the glass/ hypodermic needle covered ground.
This place was what dreams were made of...if your dreams have drunken, tattooed white trash families in wife beaters, weaving through clouds of cigarette smoke, that is. That aside, we had all one could ask: Free food, batting cages, go carts, an arcade, handfuls of hot jail bait, and a BAR with cheap pitchers.

Done. Downing three pitchers and wandering through a maze of arcade games can't be wrong. They may look like shit compared to my 360, but I was all for it. After hitting the classics like time crisis & cruisin world, I was ready for some "physical" activity. I got my ass kicked at skee ball despite my ego, so I decided to play an individual sport: the throw-the-football-through-the-hole game thingy. I have a great arm, so I surely couldn't fail at this! Well in my stride and just drilling them through, the unexpected unexpectedly occured: the cinematic slow-motion ricochet; The football somehow bounces back out of the hole, over my head (even though I'm so tall), nails a little kid in the chest and sends him to the sticky ground. My first inclination was to run, but my score was too good and I wanted to finish. So after my timer blared, I rushed over to check on him, and his mom immediately followed. "What happened!?" I told her and somehow still looked like the hero? Her bedroom eyes were beckoning like she could use another illegitimate child, so i told her what any smart man in my shoes would have: "Uh, yeah...I've gotta go play some video games now..."

Giggling to myself at how much fun I was having, I stumbled across god's gift to generation X: The Ninja Turtles Arcade Game. One other stranger joined and it was on. After pumping in token after unaccounted for token, we reigned victorious! So much fun that I decided to beat it a second time!
In the dwindling minutes of the night, I gave my Over 21 bracelet to some hoodlums that had tried to steal my beer, and set up a "hammock date" with a girl for the Ikea opening day. With a contact name like Samantha Good Times, she can't be bad.

What better way to relive middle school than without the bowl-cut and glasses?

POSTSCRIPT: In googling the Good Time Photo, I found out about the murders that have been perpetrated there.
P.P.S Girls on the Wave Runner Game look far too erotic for their own good. The only waves they were riding were the waves of lust!

P-P-P-Pig Roast

There are few things that are genius in the day-to-day schemes people come up with. BBQ's are always a good idea, but a frozen beef patty is nowhere near the level of what I have just had: My first Pig Roast.
Picture a 125lb porker, disembowled and skewered on a stainless steel, motorized spit. This is no Ronco, "set it and forget it" rotisserie (which I'll absolutely buy someday), this is a 6 ft pit, filled with hundreds of perfect, white coals.
The founders of the feast, Matt & Mac, started the laborous cooking process at 6am and let this bad boy slow roast for a solid FOURTEEN HOURS. Now this is someone else's hard work I'd like to enjoy!

Here lies the real problem of this event: Alcohol. On more than one occasion I have been asked if I am an alcoholic? Of course not. And here's my logic:
1> There's a difference between alcoholism and deliberately drinking.
2> Alcoholics don't look forward to taking a break after a long binge.
3> Alcoholics go somewhere so they can drink, Socialites drink to go somewhere.

If this doesn't make sense, you're probably an alcoholic. "No," you say? Well they say denial is a big sign too, so case in point.

Anyway, we are loaded when we arrive, anticipating eating immediately to help counterbalance, but the feast won't be ready for couple more hours. This only causes us to drink more in the meantime. I have on a brand new, expensive shirt so I immediately get Red Otter Pop spilled on it. This vexes me. I am terribly vexed. But I am also fairly inebriated, so I still feel great. While most people drink and get beer goggles, I get narcissistic and extremely flirtatious.
I chat with a cute girl in the kitchen, whose name i forget, whose number i throw away, and ask her to make me a drink. She asks "how strong?" and i say "surprise me!"
This is a bad idea. After 3 of her concoctions, I am literally* able to blow fire (*figuratively). The party heads to the roofdeck to watch the sunset and drink some delicious mircobrewed kegs. I remember little beyond this.
I hit on a different girl, who is not amused by my slurred speech, and proceed to tell the guy following her around not to look so desperate. He informs me it's his fiance. I say "maybe she doesn't know." He looks confused, and I simply walk away to let him ponder what that means. I am staggeringly drunk. My roommate puts me in a cab, and I pass out before I finish sitting. I wake up the next day in my bed to hear all the other outrageous gestures and conversations I had, and see a trail of my clothes from the front door. This is my signature. I don't even remember if the pig was good. If you're gonna embarrass yourself, you may as well make it funny.

Durian Durian

There's a lot to be said about the cultures of other countries; their customs, traditions, their delicacies... Unfortunately, in this case, we're saying that some should be forgotten because they are dumb and awful.
Southeast Asia, home of the Durian Fruit. This formidable contender weighs in from 4-7lbs and wears a coat of armor that is fully capable of drawing blood, so that the men walking beneath their looming branches are required to wear helmets when harvesting them.
During bar trivia Sunday, our friend Street Traffic Greg, boasts that he has found one of God's abominations in an obscure oriental market in the city and is going to try it Tuesday night for all interested. I am leary of his invitation, presuming that he wishes those around him to share in his foreseeable mistake. I crave excitement, even on new-fruit-small scale, so I accept. The big night rolls around and question as to the means of opening this fortress-fruit comes up. How do you break into heavily guarded produce? A few years ago, my cousin brought me an actual handmade machete from deep in El Salvador's womb. Obviously, I have never had a chance to use it, so defying all intellectual objection, I decide this is the way: Death By Machete. So I roll up my pant legs, weave the machete through my belt, put on a pirate hat and head to ground zero.
Despite its intimidating outward apprearance, the Durian is best known for its funk. Its scent ranges broadly from molding, sweaty gym socks to a molding, sweaty compost heap. Many places make it clear that while you are welcome, your stink-fruit it not, and take security measures to ensure compliance - like, checking bags and purses with their highly trained stank snouts.
Awaiting a sulfuric toxin to engage my gag reflex, I do not anticipate an enjoy-me-in-a-salad type of fruit, but rather the I-immediately-regret-this-decision type of fruit. And that's what I get. Gently persuading it open with the machete, we carefully split it into its three sections and are left looking a bit disgusted and a bit bewildered. Picture a fetus made of egg with the texture of oily, yellowish custard. And we're supposed to eat this. Some people crazy enough to like Durian claim that the worse it smells the better it tastes. This is not so. Your olfactory sense makes up a large portion of your sense of taste, so even science hates the durian fruit. I have my bite, swallow, and plan on it metastisizing in my stomach as it grows into an alien spore and bursts out through my chest, meanwhile vigorously scrubbing the scent off my hands. Being a good friend, I put a sample snack into a ziplock (read as: petri dish) to take home and make Mike try. He is less of a girl about it, but not by much.

Who Doesn't Want To Be a Millionaire?

There is a luxury in regular, liberal states that we do not have the benefit, or burden of, in Salt Lake: Good Old Fashion Gambling. There is no legalized gaming whatsoever in Utah, even to the extent of cracking down on Bingo halls and revoking their business liscenses. I can't help but laugh at the mental image of a Swat-Team of bored cops, kicking in the door to a nursing home and billy-clubbing a bunch of geriatrics for "illegally gambling" away their green jell-o?
The novelty of being able to buy lotto tickets, scratch & wins, and travel mere miles to a Dog Track has yet to fade for me. Especially when friends from Utah come to visit - it's actually a treat to be able to throw money away every time you walk into a 7-11 or liquor store because it feels like rebelling somehow. So, this brings me to the point: I am about to strike it rich and leave behind the hoi polloi. A bunch of people from my work and I have collectedly gone in on around 70 tickets for the $196M jackpot that is being held tonight! Mega Millions spans twelve states, so having an innate gift for statistics, and having taken 2 stat courses, I have a 1/12 chance of winning x70= 70/12. For those of you who can't do math, try to keep up.
After taxes, my share should equate to around $10.8M. With that much money I'll be able to buy anything! Even a lottery ticket!
And thus, the position of feeding me grapes and fanning me with oversized feathers is now accepting applications.

What would your first 5 purchases be if you hit the lotto?
And don't say a shark tank or Scarlett Johannsen, because I'm two steps ahead of you.