Big hunting trucks don't scare me

A few weeks ago my wife's cousin from France was in town. She had brought along her husband and two little boys. We took them to several local places of interest, trying to show them what amazing lives we Americans live.

However, her two little boys were never that interested in the attractions we attended. They were more intrigued by what was in the parking lot, namely the big trucks. I guess in France you don't see many Chevy Silverados with extended crew-cabs, Vortec 6-liter V8 engines, and tires the size of Paris Hilton's sunglasses.

I was so used to seeing such rides that I never saw them as unusual. So earlier this week, as I was driving on the freeway, I took note as I was passed by a beefed-out truck [truuhhk]. After the cloud of black exhaust from it's six tailpipes cleared I noticed an elk-antler silhouette on the back window. Above the antler insignia were the words "ELKOHOLIC." A couple days later I crossed paths with a similar truck, but the elk sticker on the back of it read "RACK 'EM."

Even though I come from a country town where hunting abounds and "'em" is often substituted for "them," I never remember seeing stickers like that on the back of anyone's truck. If you shot an elk or a deer you would make jerkey from its meat and turn its antlers into a lampshade, but you never put a sticker representing its head on the back of your rig.

In an attempt to understand the psychology behind such a move, I've conjured up a few reasons why the hunting dude might be inclined to paste a big elk decal on the back of his truck.

One, maybe he put it there to let everyone know he shot a really big elk. It's the only way everyone on the road will know he's the big cheese and they should watch out. But unless he wrestled the elk to death with his bare hands, I'm not impressed.

Besides, can you really be proud of shooting a big elk, especially when a little elk is a smaller, therefore more difficult target? It takes the same amount of strength to pull the trigger on either one. I want to see a truck with a decal of a young, nimble elk on the back window, then I'll give the goateed, cut-off sleeved guy in the driver's seat props.

Or maybe it isn't an ego-supporting sticker. Perhaps the elk decal adhered to the dude's back window isn't boasting about the animal he shot; maybe it's paying tribute it. A guy like that values his truck, and he won't just put anything on it. He's paying homage to his kill because once he slayed the thing it became delicious nourishment.

In that case, I should put an Otter Pop decal on the back window of my Accord. I slaughter a couple of those each day... and reap delicious nourishment each time. Above the decal I could put the words "OTTER SLAUGHTERER."

In other words, maybe the "RACK 'EM" truck-dude has a chest freezer full of elk steaks, but he's not any tougher than a guy that buys his meat at the supermarket.

The night the tire won

My wife and I were on our way to dinner, celebrating our two-year anniversary. She was dressed to kill; my shoes matched my belt: all was set for a romantic evening. As I rounded the corner a block away from the restaurant, I turned my head to look at one of the stupid things I like to look at.

I turned my head back towards the road just in time to see the curb I was going to strike. A few days prior, my obsession to have one of the most fuel-efficient cars on the road led me to the gas station where I topped off all my tires at exactly 1 more psi than the manufacture recommends. Thus the air was frantically looking for a way out, and the hard edge of the curb provided an escape.

Upon my collision, my wife started to chuckle and immediately saw the moment as an opportunity to fire back for all the times I had criticized her driving. "Yeah, you'll really laugh when we have a flat tire," I said sarcastically. Just then we heard a rushing wind.

I pulled off the road quickly and parked the rig. As I stepped out, I realized I'd never before needed to fix a flat! I tried to mask my ignorance by walking around the car and grumbling about the wrench I thought I'd need.

I opened the cover at the bottom of the trunk and was delighted to find a spare. Even so, my disguise of competence withered quickly as my wife had to find the jack for me. But I recovered by using the term "undercarriage" as the we situated the jack.

Things went smoothly from there as the car was raised and the nuts were removed from the wheel. Then, just as I pulled the damaged tire from the bolts, the jack tipped over and the car leaped forward like Michael Phelps at the start of the Men's 100-meter butterfly race. My wife said "uh oh," I said "a bad word," and the bare rotor landed on the pavement. My dang car looked like a three-legged beached whale.

I guess you're supposed to set the parking brake when you change a tire.

The car was so low to the ground that the jack wouldn't fit under it any more. I needed to lift it a good inch. It would take a miracle, even an anniversary miracle. I heaved and hawed, and up went the sagging quarter of the car. My wife quickly slid the jack back into place, and I tried to put my back back into place.

On pins and needles we again got the car jacked up, the spare on, and then let the jack down. The spare was flat.

We jacked 'er up again, took the spare off, and tried to figure out where the nearest psi supplier was. I hoisted the spare into my arms and we walked about 6 blocks to a closed service station. Not interested in wandering around with the heavy spare any farther, I walked up to the front door and peered inside.

Luckily, there was some guy still in the dark place who either was a manager working late or a robber thumbing through the cash register. Based on his reaction upon seeing us, I suspected the latter, but he still opened the door and filled up our spare tire.

We trekked back to the car and put the newly-filled spare back on. We then went to dinner where I ordered my chicken curry to be made "spicy" instead of "medium" in an attempt to convince my wife I still had a measure of manhood. It took several return trips from the waitress to refill my water, but I think it worked.

Upon leaving the restaurant, I noticed the spare was looking low again. We held our breath as we raced home; I asked her to throw her jewelry out the window in order to free up some weight, but she wasn't interested in helping the situation.

Nonetheless, we made it back home where I could put the car down for the night. If the whole fiasco had happened when we were dating I probably wouldn't have been celebrating a two-year anniversary with her that night. And my shoes probably wouldn't have matched my belt.

Surviving Church

Every week I face a long, grueling battle, and the opponent has many facets. It's me against sitting for too long. It's me against hunger. It's me against boredom. Etcetera, etcetera.

Based on the medical knowledge I gained from ripping heads off grasshoppers during recess in the 4th grade, I diagnosed myself with ADHD a few years ago.

I should have been diagnosed earlier, by a physician, so I could have had an excuse when my mom and dad came home from parent-teacher conferences. Instead, they disciplined me as if I was perfectly capable of controlling myself.

School was tough to endure, but it was broken up by recesses, lunch, and pogs. The boredom found at Church, however, was impossible to overcome.

After observing the way I responded to boredom, my Sunday School teachers would become fed up with me. They attempted to punish me in all sorts of ways, and finally they just started kicking me out of class. But I quickly realized I enjoyed it more on the OUTSIDE of the classroom than the INSIDE.

I went on to milk that consequence for all it was worth. I'd sit in Sunday School for about 3 minutes, get bored, raise hell, and bam!, I was a free man in an empty hallway.

Now that I'm an adult, that strategy doesn't have the same affect. Everyone just looks at me funny, and nobody kicks me out. So I have to resort to other methods. Here's my short list of ways to get through it all:

1. Bring food. Once, right before Sunday School started, I told my wife I had to go to the bathroom. I ran home and got some fruit snacks. She was really mad..., until I pulled out a pouch of them just for her.

2. Create your own hymns. Being a seasoned rapper, I often compose my own hymns while sitting on the pews. Once I've made up enough for a hymnal, I'll submit them to be published for churches in the more urban areas.

3. Draw. Whether it's a depiction of a mighty war between two pirate ships or a portrait of the bishopric, a detailed sketch can make the time move along quickly.

4. Play the "Who'd Be More Likely To... ?" game. While sitting in church, look around and ask yourself, or someone next to you that is also looking for a mental escape, "Who'd be more likely to suddenly snap and start swearing like a sailor at the next church activity, Sister Jones (the 75-year old choir director), or Brother Hammond (the 50-year old high priest that claims he saw Jesus)?"

Heaven knows any soldier will need more than four ways to make it through a 3-hour set of meetings. But this is a quick list for all of you who'd like a starter-kit of ammo for this week's battle.

My nemesis, the blender

Most father-in-laws put their son-in-law candidates through some type of mental test to ensure they're qualified to marry their daughter. Mine put me though a physical screening.

It was my first time at his house, and I had recently proposed to my wife. I woke up to find him in the kitchen, running the blender. He didn't say much, just added a few more ice cubes, pureed for a couple more moments, and then poured me a tall glass of a highly viscous concoction.

"I made you some breakfast," he said with a smirk. "I drink this every morning." Understanding the task before me (and the award ahead), I buckled down, braced my spine, and started to gulp the drink of doubt. My spine almost gave way.

It was packed with spinach, but that was the good part. I assumed the strong tang to it was some sort of fish oil, but I couldn't identify the crunchy chunks that lodged in my throat. I was hoping they were some type of nut, but I wouldn't have been surprised if he had thrown in the skull of a dead mouse.

I continued to gulp it down. As I reached the half-way point he leaned in expectantly, waiting for it all to come back up. Little did he know, I had experience with such a texture and taste. Growing up, my mom went through some health phase where she'd regularly drink a similar blended concoction for breakfast each day.

My younger brother and I called it "The Green Devil." It was named by its color, and because we figured it was the choice of drink in hell. We used to dare each other to drink the portion remaining in the blender after she poured her glass. Being the younger, he was usually forced to take the dare.

Today he suffers from regular heart burn, a condition that could likely be traced back to "The Green Devil."

I went beyond the half-way point with my future father-in-law's drink and continued on until I saw the light at the end of the tunnel (i.e., the bottom of the glass). I couldn’t see it in his face, but I could tell he was amazed. He acted nonchalant as he grabbed the blender and filled my glass once more.

Yeah, I haven’t had great experiences with blenders. My wife and I still talk about “The Fiasco of ’06.” I was trying to make some frothy chocolate milk. The lid to the blender wasn’t on correctly, and I didn’t notice as I went on to hit the “smoothie” button. Suddenly I was getting showered in Nesquick, and so was the kitchen.

And just last night, my wife and I decided to make a couple shakes with some frozen fruit and ice cream. We loaded up the blender, and I placed it on the control station. But there was an error when I docked it. The flanges of the spinny thing that turns the blades weren’t in line with the flanges of the thing on the control station.

I turned it on full power and chunks of plastic and frozen fruit began shooting off in all directions. My wife took cover in another room. I ducked behind the counter and felt my way around until I grasped the cord and yanked it from the wall outlet.

Now we're without a blender, and I think I like it that way.

Passing the Safety and Emissions Inspection

I just got my Utah Motor Vehicle Registration Materials in the mail. I might as well have been given hell in a hand basket.

This horrendous undertaking first struck me last year. I had been going around with an out-of-state license plate on my car, so I was free from the stranglehold of the Utah vehicle-registration process. But after residing in the state for about 4 years, I decided I had better break down and get Utah plates.

I found out that in order to register, my wife and I's car would need to pass a so-called "safety and emissions test." I come from a state where safety and emissions inspections are unheard of.

If the thing moves, you can ride it down the road, whether it's an automobile, ATV, tractor, or some sort of livestock. Yes, you can ride a cow into town as long as you use the appropriate hand signals at 4-way stops.

Not knowing what to expect when bringing my car in for a safety and emissions test, I took my car to some shoddy looking building off the side of the road, paid the fee, and they passed my car. Figuring that was all there was to it, I had my wife take her car in a few days later, but to another location closer to where she worked.

Bad idea. The sleazy mechanics raked her over the coals. They looked for any and all reasons to fail her car, and they found plenty--all of which were "conveniently" able to be repaired right there in the shop. A $40 pair of windshield wipers. $15 to get the windshield-washer fluid level up to the "full" line. I think they even charged her for each psi it took to get her tires properly inflated.

A year later, it's time for round two. Only now I've got a crack in my windshield the size of The Grand Canyon. And when I first start my car in the morning, there's a noise in the engine that could only be matched by a rattle snake strung out on 4 cups of coffee.

My wife's car is fine, other than the squeal it emits everytime you make a turn. It's incredibly high pitched. Every once in a while you'll make a turn and not hear it, but at that moment every dog in a one mile radius sticks its head in the ground.

I have a feeling we're not going to pass. At least under the "standard inspection process."

Ever since moving to Utah I've heard of back-alley mechanics that will pass off your car if you hand them 50 bucks, followed by a wink and a nod. I haven't been able to find these underground ruffians, but they sound a lot less expensive than the guys at the local service station.

If I can't find someone to pass me off, legally or illegally, then maybe I can file a safety and emission inspection exemption with the State.

I could say the vertical crack in my windshield serves as a cross hair for aiming my way through traffic. I could say the rattle in the engine is meant to tell me my engine is running, because it's so efficient that you wouldn't know otherwise. Lastly, I could say the squeal in my wife's car is actually a glorified turn signal, making it the only car in the state that warns blind pedestrians when making a turn.