Song of the Day: Passion Pit - Sleepyhead

From their debut EP, this is Sleepyhead.  I just picked this up and it is great.  They remind me a lot of a very upbeat Postal Service.  I can't wait for them to release a full album.

A Groundhog's greeting to one and all! (From me. I am not a groundhog.)

Groundhog Day is once again upon us... again. It seems like it was just yesterday - or was it?

I missed the prognosticator of prognosticator, the seer of seer's prediction this morning on the news. I had to look it up on the internet. Alas, as it was told, Phil saw his shadow, which, as tradition holds, means six more weeks of dreary winter.

I am not sure who came up with this tradition, but it had to be the work of an insane man. What does a groundhog seeing his shadow have to do with winter? It doesn't make much sense at all. What does a rodent's shadow have to do with weather prediction?

After giving some thought to this inane tradition, I have come up with some other potentially ludicrous methods of telling the future. Perhaps one will catch on and we can gather together and perform the prediction ceremony each year at an undisclosed "knob".

On March 16th, if a Basset Hound named "Chugs" eats his own vomit, the winner of the NCAA tournament shall arise from the west.

On April 9th, if the cock crows thrice, Biff Henderson will finally admit that he is really Oprah's long lost brother.

On May 26th, if the sweat from my armpits have bled through both my shirts after a long day of teaching, there will be six more weeks of school. We'll have my brother Jacob perform the ceremony.

On July 18th, if Paris Hilton sees her shadow, it will be the first time. (For those that might not get this one, you see, Paris Hilton is so skinny, she doesn't even have a shadow. If you are still confused by this joke, you might actually be Paris Hilton.)

On September 18th, if a moose hoots at the moon, Mayor McCheese will finally get that unicorn he always wanted and ride across a rainbow.

On October 1st, if Angelina Jolie adopts a child, Jennifer Aniston will make another chick flick to get back at Brad. Okay, that one might actually happen.

Happy Groundhogs Day everybody. I hope to not writing this same post tomorrow.

In the words of the great Phil Connors:

When Chekhov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here among the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn't imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter.

The night I thought for sure I was a going to die. (FYI - I didn't)

It seems that I am full of stories.  They seem to burst out of me like miniature butterfly shaped barf nuggets.  I am not sure if I have more zany life stories than the average person or if because of who I am, I am just more apt to experience them.  In other words, do I have zany stories because I am zany or are my zany stories simply a reflection of my zaniness?  It's like the whole chicken in the womb thing.  

At any rate, while watching The Office tonight, I was reminded of a moment in my life in which I was the more frightened I have ever been. I thought it best that I share, if for no other reason than Lincoln might someday read it and find it amusing.  If for some reason, he refuses to read his own father's blog, perhaps he could pass it on to his child and so on.

This story takes place on my mission.  Now, I am definitely not one to rehash old mission stories and I cringe when every story someone tells begins, "There was this one time, on my mission."  It might as well be a story about Band Camp.  There are some folks from former Elder's quorums I have been in, that I could recite their mission experience before they even began sharing.  Many mission stories actually sound and are in reality the same. It is these stories that I dread the most.  At any rate, I hope this story is different; original, formative and at least slightly entertaining. I hope.

I had been on the mission for just over 6 months when I received a new companion.  We were stationed in a tiny town in Central PA known as "New Bloomfield".  It was quaint, dainty and secluded.  In fact, while there, I often felt as though I was trapped on the set of a horrible small town chick flick.  It was autumn and the streets were lined with large elm trees.  The houses were mainly Victorian style and the main street was charming.  It was one of those places where you would expect Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks to come walking down the street, wearing turtlenecks and holding hands while walking a dog.  It truly was a bewitching mix of charm and winsomeness. 

My companion and I had only been together a short time, and I could tell that this would be one of those "enduring" type situations.  He was rigid and aloof.  I was goofy and sociable.  He seemed like a good enough guy, but our personalities clashed.  Little did I know...

After the fifth long day of tracting (Tracting is mainly what we did in PA, along with talking to cows in the fields.), we returned to our apartment exhausted.  Before I continue, I feel it important to explain the beauty of our housing situation.  

This apartment was situated in the basement of an old church that had been converted into an complex.  There were about five apartments upstairs, but our place took up the entire basement.  It was the gem apartment of the mission.  It was approximately 2,000 square feet with four bedrooms and two bathrooms.  The front room was enormous and during down times we would play broom hockey or throw a Frisbee back and forward.  Because of it's size and the tile floor, it did echo quite a bit and in the evening an eerie wind would swirl through the ceiling.  The church bell still chimed occasionally - however, we could never figure out when or why it would chime; there was not a set pattern to it's madness.

On this evening, I was exhausted and went to bed as soon as we got home.  I slept well until midnight, when I awoke startled to an ear-piercing bang that seemed to be coming from the front of the apartment.  I glanced over at my companion and he was hiding behind a large beam in the middle of the front room.  He yelled at me, "SOMEBODY IS SHOOTING AT US!  GET DOWN, GET DOWN!"

Not knowing what to do, and still clearly in a sleepy daze, I rolled out of bed and onto the floor.  I then spider crawled over the beam next to him.  The entire time, the bangs continued to ring through the air, each one sending chills down my spine.  

We sat, behind the beam, and I whispered, "Who is it?  Why are they shooting at us?"  I could see the front window, but I could not see a single soul roaming around our apartment.  My companion responded, "It could have been those guys we met on the street the other day.  They were pretty angry."  

Now, I couldn't remember any meeting any angry guys on the street.  Certainly not in New Bloomfield, the cheesiest, sappiest small town in all of Pennsylvania.  It didn't matter though; my mind was spinning a million miles an hour and my hands were now shaking.  The gunshots did not let up either, and they seemed to be getting louder.

My companion finally suggested I crawl over to the phone that was laying on the floor and dial 911.  The phone was about 30 feet away and close to the wall.  I held my breath and slowly spider crawled to the phone.  Fortunately, my training at the MTC had given me the confidence to crawl across the ground on my belly.  About half way to the phone, the gunshots rang out again, piercing the air like missiles.  I reverted to a corner where I huddled, shaking and out of control.  I looked like a little girl that had went out to buy her mother some Christmas shoes, but instead died in the cold. My senses had officially given in to the fear.  I could feel the wind as the bullets whizzed by my ears.  I knew that my time had come.  "At least dying on your mission gives you a pass straight to the CK", I thought.

It was then that my companion turned on the lights and began to laugh.  What?  What was going on?  The waking out of a slumber sleep, the noise, the fear for my life - it had all completely shut me down.  My companion then walked to the kitchen and returned with a frying pan.  Inside the pan lay a very long strand of Black Cat fireworks. Inside our enormous, echoing apartment, the sound of them going off was like a battle scene from Saving Private Ryan. Finally, my overloaded and frantic brain began to make sense of things.

While my companion laughed like a baboon sitting on a peacock, I sat down in our makeshift sofa and stared at the wall.  It likely took 15 minutes for my hands to stop shaking, but it seemed like I sat there all night. Finally, I got up from my chair and without saying a word, returned to bed where I lay, open-eyed and in shock for the rest of the night. 

My companion, knowing that he had crossed the line, apologized to me profusely again and again.  We spent the next week or so in relative silence; only speaking while teaching together. The next time I saw my Mission President, I told him that I would like to be transferred; that things were just not working out for our companionship.  I was gone the next week. I told a few other missionaries on my mission, but this is the first I have brought it up since my return.  

I thank you for allowing me to yield upon you a piece of my missionary history.  While I hope you enjoyed my foolhardiness, I promise not to annoy you with another mission story for a very long time.

My conversation today with a pyromaniac.

As finance clerk, I have the unfortunate responsibility of purchasing paper for the ward library.  I have no idea how I obtained this chore other than it has been passed down from one finance clerk generation to the next; until at last, I find myself every four months buying 4 boxes of paper at the Office Depot.

Today I decided to go all out and get five boxes;  that might buy me an extra month or two.  I piled the boxes into my cart and pushed my way to the checkout stand.

It was there that I met Pete, or Timmy, or Sam.  I'm not really sure of his actual name, but he was a seventeen year old freak.  Our conversation went something like this, and mind you I am in no way exaggerating anything that was said.

Pete: Wow!  That is a ton of paper.  Hardly anyone ever buys that much paper.  Is it almost gone over there or something?

Cheeseboy: No, I just needed to buy a lot of paper. 

Pete: I bet you could make a HUGE fire with all that paper.  We had all this extra paper once and we made a huge bonfire.

Cheeseboy: Oh yeah?

Pete: You going to make a fire with it? - cause I bet it would huge!

Cheeseboy: It's actually for my church.

Pete: Ah, gotcha.  Alright, here's your receipt.

Cheeseboy: Thanks a lot, have a good day.

Pete: You too.  Let me know if you ever want to start that fire.

I am still not sure if he was kidding or not, but by his freakish nature, I am guessing not. This by far was the strangest character I have ever come across at an Office Depot, and that's saying a lot because those places are loaded with them.  Just go into any Office Depot and ask for a laser pointer and sit back and watch the fireworks.

I won't even go into the conversations I had today with ward members that were angry about there being no paper in the library this past week.  Well, maybe I'll go into tomorrow.

Two Utes visit Abe's classroom!

As if I needed another reason to cheer for my beloved Utes...

My new student teacher is really awesome.  Not only is she a great teacher, but her cousin is dating Caleb Schlauderaff, Offensive Guard for the University of Utah Runnin' Utes! He started this year and was a huge factor in the Utes success.

She arranged to have Caleb come read to our class.  She said she did this for the kids, but I think she also knew it would totally make my day.  Anyhow, I was overjoyed when he agreed to come for a visit.  

Caleb brought a friend with him: Right Tackle, Dustin Hensel.  While Caleb's arms were larger than my thighs, Dustin was in a whole different league.  The man is 6-7 and 307 lbs - and not fat.  The kids were blown away at his enormity.  He seemed to fill the entire room.  (He has a good chance to be drafted this year and I certainly hope he does.)

When they came into the classroom, there were several parents that had heard word that they were going to be there and came to visit.  I introduced them to the class by saying, "KIDS, WE ARE VERY LUCKY TO HAVE TWO OF THE MOST IMPORTANT PLAYERS VISIT US FROM THE BEST TEAM IN THE ENTIRE COUNTRY!"  

These guys were so cool.  They split up and Caleb read a book to my class while Dustin read to the other class.  They then answered questions.

One kid asked Caleb if he had killed anyone before.  Caleb looked right at him and said, "I think I only killed one person, a small redheaded kid wearing a Steelers jersey."  The boy, of course, fit this description and we all had a good laugh.  

The guys stayed, took pictures and signed and autograph for every kid.  They then glanced out the window and saw some older kids playing basketball.  You should have seen the fifth grader's faces when two enormous Utah players, wearing Ute jerseys, stepped onto the black top for a game.

They then stayed outside for an hour and signed even more autographs.  Several parents will probably be surprised tonight when their kids come home with their sneakers autographed by a couple linemen.

There are not too many "perks" of being a First Grade teacher, but today I found one.  These guys made this one of my best teaching days ever.  It was great fun.  Thanks Brooke, for setting it up!

By the way, the guys told me to make the "U" sign during the picture, although this one is a bit sagging.  We also got a picture of the entire class with the guys, making the "U" sign, even the ones I KNOW are BYU fans.  I plan on making copies and giving them to their parents at parent/teacher conference.

These guys really went out of their way and stayed much longer than they needed to.  They could have just shown up and made an appearance, but they wanted to stick around and make sure everyone on the playground got an autograph that wanted one.

One last thing funny I just remembered - the First Graders kept asking the guys, "Where's Louie?" or "Where's the kicker?"  Caleb mumbled something about that guy being the king of the city and I think Dustin was a little angry as he is Louie's roommate.

It's these guys and days like these that make me so proud to be a Ute!

I don't want to brag, but braggings my game and my kids are cute.

To my avid and somewhat demented Blog O' Cheese readers: I, Cheeseboy, interrupt the highly debatable and controversial topic of Belvedere v. Danza to bring you three videos I have been meaning to post for friends and family. I apologize, for the usual hilarity shall ensue on the morrow. In the mean time, check out my adorable kids!

The first video is Lincoln and I on our most recent excursion to Leeds. We always go on this hike, about five minutes from Grandma's house, to Red Cliffs. Lincoln loves it because at the end of the hike you have to hold onto a rope and swing yourself across a small waterfall. Lincoln, being too small, gets to gallivant on papa's back. We almost died here!




Calder has recently begun repeating the phrase over and over to me, "YOU'RE THE BEST DAD IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD!" It never gets old. He says it first thing when I get home, when he goes to bed and when I leave for school in the morning. Often, he will just say it out of the blue and give me a hug. It's too adorable for words. I really need to include this somehow in my next "tag" for the girls to ahh at. Check it out:



The final video is of our recent trip to Disneyland. We were in line for about the 1oth time for the new Toy Story ride there. The boys enjoyed wearing their glasses.


Again, back to the creative nonsense tomorrow.

Mr. Belvedere v. Tony Danza

The Blog O' Cheese is prepared to ask the hard hitting questions that the regular media is afraid to cover. (Except of course "Extra", which I am sure would be ready to ask this question, if they were creative enough to think of their own questions.)

The Question?: Mr. Belvedere v. Tony Danza  - which was the better man maid, chamberman, manny and housekeeper?  It is a inquisition that has been asked throughout the ages, or at least since 1986, when both shows aired.

As the apostle Jonah exclaimed, "Choose ye this day which bro-keeper ye shall serve; for no man can serve two man-servants." (1 Thadeus 16:22)

Belvedere

Pros: 

1. Jovial

2. Pastoral in the face of chaos 

3. Mustached 

4. Excellent pronunciation of the word "Wesley"

5. Drop kicks jackets

Cons:

1. Never met him before (But who cares?)

2. Is friends with Bob Uecker 

3. Ends each day by writing in his diary much like that weirdo, Doogie Howser, MD.

4. British

5. Frequently makes fun of Wesley's friends with orthodontic headgear.

Danza

Pros:

1. Daughter is Alyssa Milano 

2. Muscly 

3. Drives a van

4. Knows a thing or two

5. Handsome, single father

Cons: 

1. He is Tony Danza

2. His pronunciation of "Jonathan" 

3. Italian 

4. "The Tony Danza Show"

5. Played for the Cardinals 

Now is the time for you to weigh in.  Belvedere or Danza. If this was a fighting competition, clearly the victor would be a much more carnal, savagely tenacious Belvedere. Nevertheless, this is not a fist fight we're talking about.  We're talking 100% man-cleaning and in this competition it is neck and neck.  However, I'd certainly like to hear the thoughts of the reading audience.  

(That means write your thoughts in the comments.)

A Cheeseboy special contest. Today only!

Hey everybody - As a special thanks to those that read my blog during their down time at work (or home), I would like to offer a special contest.  

A Cheeseboy branded prize to the first person that responds correctly in the comments:

During the 80's in Utah, where was the best place to get a pair of Tony Lama boots?

Bad beginnings to even worse stories.

Today as I was leaving school, I overheard the beginning of a conversation that the sweeper boys were having in the hallway. The minute I heard the first sentence I knew that it was not a story I wanted to hear. It began: "There was this movie that we watched today in Health class..." No way that this story ends in a good way!


That got me thinking: in life there are some stories that from the very first sentence you just know that going to very bad places. The following are first lines to stories that never end well:


So I was in line at the D.M.V. the other day...

I took my wedding ring off to...

I was driving my Dodge minivan on the highway...

So, the Stake Executive Secretary called the other day...

My single brother bought a Jetta the other day...

There I was, in the Costco restroom...

Well, I was kissing this girl that goes to BYU...

I had to give Comcast a call the other day...

I had this tall friend in high school that was playing basketball and had braces on his teeth...

This one time, in Junior High wood shop...

I went to bikini cuts today...

I had this strange dream the other night...

After I got done eating at Chuck-A-Rama...

Last night, at the ward ball game...

On Sunday, there was this smell in the ward nursery...

And finally -

So I was jogging around Liberty Park...

By the way - GO UTES!

Dear Jazz fans...

The Jazz will never win a championship until Jerry Sloan decides that his team might want to guard the 3 point line. Having unathletic guards is no longer an excuse.

Rant over.

The true story of my first date - well, what should have been my first date.

During my mid teens, I was always a bit awkward with the ladies. I had no idea how to harness my goofiness and bizarre sense of humor into something the chicks would dig. It was only later that I realized that attractive ladies love a funny man: my smoking hot wife is proof positive of that. However, learning to make the ladies laugh was a long and tedious process that was molded by more than my share of pitfalls. It all began with with the first girl I ever asked out.

When I turned sixteen, I began talking to a girl in my English class. She seemed kind enough and very sweet,  and I made the decision that this young lady would be fortunate enough to be my first date.

As is customary in the bubble known as Utah, when a high school dance comes around, it is expected that the "asking" be done in the most obnoxiously strange way imaginable. A dweebily thin, pimple faced boy must shell out hundreds of dollars on balloons, cakes, pillows and the like, all in effort to one up the other fellas and find the most "creative" way to ask his date to the dance. This was a skill that I was not taught and it became painfully obvious.

My friend and I gathered one Saturday night for a planning session. He had already asked his lady friend, using some ridicules combination of stuffed animals, roses and a note. No, flowers and charm simply would not do for a first date; I needed something that would blow her doors off.

The mind of this 16 year old male was fogged with mists of hormones, immaturity and bad judgement. Thus was the case - as the plan unravelled from my teenage brain into reality. The game plan went as follows:

We went to the local Albertsons and purchased an entire dead chicken. (With the head missing, of course.)

I wrote a note and placed it through the hole where the chicken's head once was. The note simply said, "Don't be chicken, go to the dance with Abe."

We then stuffed the chicken with popcorn. We therefore had: Chicken with no head, stuffed with popcorn, with a clever note asking for her company for the ball. It was fail proof! Certainly she would see the hilariousness of my methodology and off we would be - arm in arm, frolicking to the dance like star struck lovers.

My friend waited in the car while I snuck up to the dark doorstep and dumped the now foul smelling fowl onto her doorstep. I then rang the bell twice and bolted for the car. My friend stayed just long enough for us to see her father standing - dumbfounded over the featherless bird. He picked it up with his thumb and pointer finger, much like one would hold a poopy diaper, and took it into the house. The bait was set, I only needed to reel her in.

I received no answer for several days. The marked gal simply said hi to me in the halls, and otherwise avoided me. Nevertheless, I held out hope. After five long days, I knew that she had to be giving it some serious contemplation. (More likely was that her parents were trying unsuccessfully to talk her into going to the dance with me as a "mercy date" of sorts; the special kid that left the dead bird on our porch - and she was having none of it.)

Finally, that Friday evening, a full six days after my initial request, I received a knock on the door. I rushed to the porch to find a small jar of jelly with a ribbon and a note saying, "To Abe". Alas, it was my answer.

I tore open the jar and dumped the jelly into a bowl. There at the bottom lay a tiny, folded piece of paper. With quivering hands, I unfolded and read out loud, "Sorry, I can't go." Devastation.

The next Monday morning, she apologized and said that someone had already asked her to the dance. I later found out that she did not go to the dance at all and spent the evening "guarding" the H rock with some friends. She clearly did not see the humor of the dead chicken, which I found odd. It wasn't like I put a dead cow head in her bed - this was just a chicken. Why would any girl find that in any way psychotic.

My already fragile self esteem cracked and sizzled like a plastic cup on a campfire. I did not ask another girl out for six months.

I recently found this girl on facebook, but I do not dare to request her friendship. Certainly, she will someday tell her daughters the story of the crazy kid that stuffed a dead bird with popcorn and gave it to her as a gift. Certainly, she has already told this story hundreds of times over the years. This story of the dead chicken shall live forever in infamy.

(Mom, there may be questions regarding the authenticity of this story. Will you - or other family members - confirm it's truth? Bless you... Cheeseboy)

An essay on prizes and their effect on human kind.

Today my topic shall be prizes; for who amongst us does not enjoy a good prize now and again? I have broken this subject matter up into three separate and distinct categories: Prizes from sporting events, prizes from McDonalds and cereal box prizes. I shall begin this discourse by discussing the evolution of the cereal box prize.

Cereal Box Prizes

When I was a kid, when I was given the choice (which I was very rarely given), I almost always selected the sugar cereal with the best prize on the box. When I was very young, the prize was mixed into the cereal as if it were an elephant masquerading amongst a herd of cornstalks. I would pour cereal into my bowl - patiently each morning until finally, the prize would drop and clang into my bowl like someone dropping a rock into an empty, metal wishing well. My guess that somewhere in the history of the 80's, a brain dead child mistakenly ate the prize and then sued the pants off Kelloggs. (Does Tony the Tiger wear pants? I am not sure - different cartoon characters wear pants in different times. Sure, Mickey has always adorned knickers, but he was a trendsetter - which Tony the Tiger certainly was not.)

Later, the cereal box prize started to make an appearance on the outside of the cereal bag. This made things much easier for a impatient ten year old hand. Simply pull out the plastic bag, grab your matchbox car, and then return the plastic bag to it's rightful place. It was like taking candy from a baby. (I'd never take candy from a baby back then. However, given that I was the oldest in the family, it would certainly have been an easy thing to do. But can you imagine 'Baby Jacob's' reaction if I took his sucker? I know, I know.)

The third stage of the cereal box prize was the "UPC symbol send in". For a squirmy squirt like myself, this was the worst kind of prize promising torture. Cut out TWO! UPC symbols from the top of the box, add $1.50 shipping, and then wait 6-8 weeks for delivery. And that's IF your mom let you send them in in the first place. Hardly seemed worth it for a Wacky Wall Walker.

Finally, in today's day and age, the cereal box prize has all but disappeared. Sure, occasionally there is a token prize here and there - for old times sake. But by and far, the cereal box prize has gone the way of Strawberry Shortcake's virginity: lost somewhere in the early 90's.

While I am on the subject of cereal from a box, the other day I poured the last bowl of cereal from the box only to receive... you guessed it - a pile of cereal sawdust on top of my breakfast. I hate the cereal sawdust! Kills me every time.

The McDonalds Happy Meal Prize

This prize has lived through the 70's, 80's, 90's and is a permanent fixture of the thousands. These prizes have limited entertainment value and generally lose their appeal after 30 minutes of play time. They do, however, carry an unbelievable value when it comes to dirtying up any front room. I'm not sure, but I believe that 80% of the crap on our living room floor on any given day received it's origin from the god of McDonald.

While I am sure it is too dangerous, the Happy Meal prize should be a two ounce bottle of hand sanitizer. That way, when the boys come squalling into the table, eager to eat after spending twenty minutes in that puss filled, germ party known as the "playland", we can squirt a couple dabs of sanitizer onto their palms to keep us all from throwing up.

I actually believe that McDonalds started marketing their "Monopoly" game because the adults were tired of their kids getting prizes all the time while they sat, greasy palmed and prizeless on the playland bench. In fact, the greatest Monopoly prize of all is the "free hash brown". I have never seen grown adults so ecstatic about a 99 cent piece of processed potato! I want to tell them, "You do realize in order to redeem that piece of garbage, you do actually have to come back to McDonalds... in the morning... before 10:00. So... put that minute piece of paper into your wallet where it will stay for at least six months, until... you one day find it while hunting for your library card. I have news for you prize wannabe losers: The library does not serve deep fried potato and it does not play monopoly.

In my view, McDonalds would be smart to start marketing a "Parental McDonalds Survival Kit" to sell at the counter. (They could be situated between the cookies and the ketchup packets.) For $4.99, any parent could receive: hand sanitizer, stain lifter, wet naps and handcuffs to keep kids from climbing underneath the table and running through the restaurant sockless. For an extra dollar, they could include a whistle to retrieve your child from the top layer of Playland tubing.

The Sporting Event Prize

I'm not sure about you, but I am tiring a bit of the usual, cliche sporting event prize; the bobble heads, tee shirts, mints and mini balls. I'd like to see some creativity and innovation from the marketing geniuses employed by Larry H.. (That means you Jake!)

How about Jerry Sloan, John Deere tractor night? Surely a matchbox sized John Deere tractor, produced in mass, could be done at a low cost. Or, how about a pack of Carlos Boozer brand band aides? Or 10,000 miniature Matt Harpring harps. Bring back the free fries at Hardees! (I realize Hardees is no longer around, so bring back Hardees!)

If the marketing gurus really want to cause a stir, how about a Valentines day pack of coupons for husbands to give their wives. You know the kind, "good for one free hug" or "one free date night". Of course, given that it is a Jazz promotion, the coupon book would not be complete without a coupon, "good for one free 'Andre Kirilenko night' away from your wife." Apparently this has worked wonders for AK.

I'm still upset about that cereal sawdust. It totally ruins the entire bowl of cereal! Your "bowl of cereal" suddenly becomes a "bowl of chunky mush". Why can't Kellogg's just wrap the excess sawdust in a cellophane wrap and give that out as the prize?! Perhaps even, instead of having the sawdust in the box, you have to send in 2 UPC symbols and $1.50 shipping and it will be mailed to you?

If they are so intent on giving us the end of cereal sawdust, why not make an entire cereal out of the sawdust? They could call it "Count Chocolate Dandruff". Perhaps the prize could be a two ounce bottle of Pert Plus?

I've been tagged and this time I'm taking it seriously. (Because I can't think of anything else to blog about and I don't want to disappoint readers.)

First of all, I would like to say I sincerely apologize for missing a day of blogging yesterday. I fought long and hard with blogger last night, and I was ultimately defeated and I went down in a blaze of glory. I am still having troubles with the site, as I am unable to see the normal “posting” screen. It is missing the font choices and the spell check. Is anyone else having these same issues? It is beyond frustrating.

I have been tagged by my sister Esther. She tagged me, as a joke, but I am going to go surprise her by actually responding to her tag. I was tagged once before, but had a difficult time taking it seriously. Therefore, I take upon me this challenge: to respond to a “tag” without making it a joke.

*Note to my readers: Just because I am responding to a tag does not decrease my manliness or make me a mom blogger. Why do tags just have to be for girls? Sure, 95% of tags are done by girls, but being the blogging trendsetter that I am, I am going to do my best to change things. Hope you appreciate this Esther. I’m putting on my wussy cap for you.

*Note #2: I am also doing this because for once, I have a severe case of blogger’s block. This is the first time that this has happened, and I hope that breaking the tag curse will pull me out of it.

*Note #3: After blogging about pooping my pants, I have no shame. That and completing a little tag will only do wonders for my “street cred” with the other Mormon mom bloggers.

8 Favorite TV Shows:
1. LOST (But less so now that “Neil” was hit by a flaming arrow in the chest. He was my favorite character on the show!)
2. The Daily Show (But less so now that “You don’t know Dick” will no longer be a regular clip.)
3. Chuck (Unless I have to wear 3D glasses. I hate cardboard papercuts on the bridge of my nose.)
4. Freaks & Geeks
5. The Office
6. Get A Life (Staring the great Chris Elliott.)
7. The Soup (Especially Yo Gabba Gabba clips and clips of cats eating spaghetti.)
8. Saturday Night Live

Steven Colbert and 30 Rock deserve an honorable mentions here as well.

8 Things I Did Yesterday
1. Went down a waterslide. (Not joking.)
2. Kissed me lady. (On the lips even.)
3. Laser pointed until I could laser point no more.
4. Killed a spider.
5. I had some socks in my underwear drawer. I had no idea how they got there. I decided to move them to their rightful drawer.
6. Sang “I’m A Survivor” out loud in my Hyundai.
7. Watched “The Office” and told my wife that “HILLARY SWANK IS NOT HOT!”, which she is not.
8. Made up a bedtime story for Lincoln and Calder about a dragon that needs braces because the fire is ruining his teeth.

8 Things I Look Forward To:
1. Next school year
2. Sleeping in
3. Occasions in which I get to perform
4. Football games
5. Buying new clothes
6. Eating out at a nice place with my lady
7. Summer
8. Jogging

8 Favorite Restaurants:
1. Market Street Broiler
2. Joe’s Crab Shack (for crab)
3. Rodizio Grill (only occasionally – for meat)
4. Training Table (for Bleu Bacon burger and cheese fries.)
5. Crown Burger
6. PF Changs
7. The Pie
8. Millies

8 Things On My Wish List:
1. Hot Tub
2. Plasma TV
3. Trip to Pennsylvania
4. Cruise to Alaska
5. VW Bus
6. I’m getting really tired of this.
7. How do you ladies do these ALL THE TIME!
8. More wishes

There you have it – a man truthfully responding to a tag. Soak it in now ladies, because you may never see it again in your lifetime. It actually felt really good; like I was shedding layers of shame. I don’t feel awkward at all. I do think that I am going to go lift some weights and grow some more chest hair before hitting the hay.

I’ve got to crush this writer’s block. Responding to tags simply reeks of desperation.

I do not tag anyone and this spawn of the tag officially ends here.

Thank you for your patience and the Blog O’Cheese will be back to it’s normally scheduled programming on the morrow with some original material.

Respect this! (The story of my new laser pointer.)

I got myself a sheik, new laser pointer today. Decided to go with the "executive" model. It is a four-in-one model with a laser, highlighter, flashlight and pen. I've decided it's pretty much the one that Jason Borne would carry, if the situation arose that a laser pointer would be needed - like, he had to give a presentation to other spies or make a cat go a certain direction.

I went "Executive" this time for two reasons: 1) The prestige 2) The sleek look. Also, I felt that I needed an industrial strength laser; one that had the ability to melt the skin off a human being. When other teachers see me walk down the hall with the "Executive" in my front pocket, they move to the walls and allow me to pass. I am not sure if they appreciate my winking at them as the "Executive" and I pass on by, but they have to show some respect. The "Executive" demands it. It screams "respect me" from the mountaintops.

Purchasing the Executive model laser pointer has been the best decision of my life. (After, of course, my wife, the kids and deciding to go sockless in bed.)

Song of the Day: Coldplay - Life In Technicolor ii

Howdy folks. Today's song is the best Coldplay video yet. Do you like puppet shows? Well, if you are like me, then no, no you don't. However, I would pay money to see this puppet show. In fact, the boys have probably watched this video twelve times in one day. Very innovative.