Brush with fate

My toothbrush retired today. Not of its own volition, of course. Toothbrushes don't just shrug their bristles and say, "ehhh, i've had a good career. Made it through two tubes of Crest. I think I'm gonna go pursue other things. Maybe start up my own gig scrubbing showers or sumpin'"

No, toothbrushes just don't do that. Because they know that once they are done with the whole teeth-thing, they'll likely spend their silver years molding under a bathroom sink as the designated home "utility brush."

Since my toothbrush wasn't going into the night peacefully, I considered it my duty to take action. Show him who was boss. Exercise management control. So I brought him in for a little career counseling meeting.

Me: You know, Brush, I really appreciate everything you do for the company. Your dedication is unmatched.

Brush: Oh...thank you. I do my best y'know. Fight tooth and nail *chuckle* for this company...

Me: Tooth and nail. Ha. Funny. Yeah, the thing is that we've had some complaints about your uh bristles. They're too soft. And your blue indicator line faded away months ago...

Brush: You really believe those marketing scams? They make those blue lines fade away YEARS before you actually need to replace us. That's how Procter and Gamble makes its money, chief. They're rollin' in the greenstuff because of those indicator lines. I'll bet the guy who invented that is laughing his head off in Aspen, eating some kind of expensive French dessert at an overpriced ski lodge.

Me(muttering):Yeah well...at least his teeth will be clean...

Me: Ok look, the point is, you're done. You're yesterdays salami, Sunday's paper, The Old Kid on the Block. You've had a good run, but the show is over. It's time to call it Q. Pack up. Ship out. Move west. Try your hand at other things.

Brush: Are you firing me? After everything I've done for you? Just like that?? No notice!! I can NOT believe this. Remember when I worked overtime for you before that second date? Ten minutes of brushing. Ten minutes!! Huh? Remember that?

And what about the time I showed up to work even after you had just eaten fourteen oreos--I knew it was going to be a dirty job, but did I complain? Not once. Not a word. I was granulated for weeks. And did you ever even have the decency to buy me my own holding container? A cheap jerk like you, not a chance! Most of the time I was relegated to the second drawer or that horribly smelly leather travel case you own. And let me tell you now, man, that leather case is sprawling with bacteria. It's like an H1N1 spring break in there. And the drawer isn't much better. Hope you get strep throat, boss.

Me: Look, do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I want to move on to a new TB? We Heywoods are cheap. If I had my druthers, I'd just boil you for 30 seconds and call it good. But there's this little thing called the American Dental Association...

Brush: Oh, pish posh on the ADA!! Don't bring them up. They have nothing to do with this and you know it!

Me: Oh yeah!

Brush: Yeah!

Me: We'll choke on this, brush: "The ADA recommends that consumers replace toothbrushes approximately every 3–4 months or sooner if the bristles become frayed with use." And you are FRAYED!

Brush: No, I ain't afraid of anything. Fine. Send me to the showers. I'll scrub your mildew. But you better double and triple check your brush before every use because one day SHAZAM I'll show up in that VirusChamber you call a drawer and you'll be brushing your teeth with Comet reside. You just wait, Heywood, I'll have my revenge...

In the Last Days...

A writer for Slate said this about Mormon culture. Interesting.

If I had a million minutes...

I think I might try to write a few books. Not because I think I could write them well (I don't have the raw talent for that, which is why I work in the business world), but because I think it would be fun.

The first few books I would write:

From Deacon to Dating: A Guide for LDS Teenagers. I would write this in a style much different than, say, a John Bytheway book. There'd be a lot of lists. Practical pointers. Tips. I think the style would be like a modern men's magazine (not a dirty men's magazine, but something like Esquire, GQ or ESPN:The Magazine).

A satire of LDS romantic fiction/anything that Stephanie Meyer writes. Self-explanatory. Have you read that stuff? Someone needs to respond.

I've Been Everywhere, Man A book about truck drivers. There's gotta be some cool stories floating out there. Heck, I could even write a memoir. Quit my job as an accountant and drive truck for a year across the country. Learn Trucker Talk. Freight turnips and trusses and plastic combs across the continent. If at all possible, the book would have a foreword by C.W. McCall (unless he's dead).

Brothers don't shake, brothers gotta...

Crazy.

NY Senkyoshi

I loved this. Watch it.

9/9/09

I coulda sworn that I joked with a friend of mine of the fairer sex back in the day that we would get married on

9/9/09.

Or was it 8/8/08? Maybe 7/7/2007?

Huh. Well. Whoops. Missed that hay ride.

Here's to the auspicious 10/10/10, 11/11/11, or 12/12/12.

Pro's Ranch Market

At the advice of my aunt, I stopped by Pro's Ranch Markets, a big-box Mexican grocery store on Southern and Stapley.

If you go on a Saturday, be prepared for pandemonium. Key limes, 99 cents for four pounds? Beans selling in giant bins by the truckload? Tortilla machines operating with six-sigma efficiency? Puts Food City to south-of-the-border shame.

When I saw massive barbecue racks smoke firing chicken outside, I knew had I found my new favorite food store. My hypothesis was only confirmed when I encountered a pastry aisle, tropical fruit drink bar, and "deli" that really should be classified as its own Mexican restaurant. And that was just one third of the floor space!

I might have been the only white guy in the building. I bought a bag of beans, some garlic, peppers, and freshly made tortillas. I think I also bought a grapefruit soda called something in Spanish that I can't now, even one day later, remember.

And I might have even made a friend. As I was eating in the crowded food court (ahh the Pro Ranch cooked food! My new favorite Mexican restaurant--in a grocery store!), an older man with a Nacho Libre mustache noticed me devouring a smoke-grilled chicken burrito a little too quickly. He saw that I didn't have any napkins, and so he grabbed a few out of his bale-sized stack and handed them over towards my plate. I don't think he spoke English, and I can't speak a lick of Spanish, but we shared a moment of instant understanding--good food like this, on a crazy, crowded day like today, needs a coupla napkins.