King Of Garbage

I get tired of trying to come up with valid answers for what I plan to do with my life. It seems like  "don't know" is sort of unacceptable. People just expect you to know what you plan on doing for the rest of forever, right now. I honestly think the farthest ahead I actually plan, is what I am going to have for breakfast. Damn, I love breakfast. But as far as everything else, I have no idea. I would like to think that I will be in college for a time, but, I have quickly come to the realization, that the longer I am in college, the more  feel like drug deals become appealing. Something about barely scraping by makes years in prison seem like it might not be so bad. High risk, high reward.
But I have thought about telling people I am slowly training to become a WWE wrestler. But that has become seemingly more like a lie each day. Why? Cause I have looked the same for the past 5 years. I am in no way trying to look more like John Cena at this point. So, I have since scrapped that idea. But, in an effort to come up with a feasible answer to sell to these twits, I have decided to go with a garbage man until further notice. Not even like, I am going to research how to reduce waste, or anything like that. I am going to drive  garbage truck around, wear those terribly bright colors, and look like a convict.
Nobody is going to argue with that. They might ask why, then I'll say; job security. There will always be a garbage to be taken out, man. Then slowly make him feel guilty for not appreciating the hard work the garbage men do. They do the shit that you make your kids do! It's like chores.
Slowly I Will move up in the garbage man community. In my brain, I picture the garbage man community like a weird nudist colony. Not that everyone is naked, but you have to be a garbage man to live there. And everyone is really dirty. They all have houses made out of stuff they find in the trash, but most people live in tree houses. And everyone is way nice to each other and knows who everyone is. There is rarely a dispute or harsh words spoken about anyone inside the garbage man community. However, everyone is disgruntled about how they are treated by people who aren't inside the garbage community.
Soon enough, we all get fed up with it. We all decide to start a revolution. They elect me as King of the garbage men. And I lead them into stages of rebellion. We start by not picking up anyone's trash again. So, the cities decide to hire new garbage men, and we kidnap them. And sabotage the trucks. Then, we build a place where we can take over the airwaves. And there I am, on your TV. Sitting on a pile of trash, wearing a trash crown. Eating a rotten apple. I tell the world that I am in kahoots with garbage men all over America. And if my demands are not met, I will command my me to start the take over by hostile force.
Then the story goes one of two ways, I am either elected king of America. Or, lots of blood shed and battles lead me to become King. Either way, I win. I had heretofore thought that going the civil way of becoming King was the way to go. Win over America. Then I realized it's going to be a feat to convince people that we don't need a president anymore. So, I have since decide that by force is the way I want to go. So, let me tell you something, you can either join my forces and be entitled to a hefty paycheck and light work load, or, you can join the futile forces of the neigh-sayers. And will be charged with eating all the garbage we produce. And live in a garbage tree house. It's up to you.

I Can Count Idaho's Redeeming Qualities On No Hands.

Due to the graphic nature of the things I witnessed this weekend, this entry should not be read if; you have a preexisting heart condition, are pregnant or may become pregnant, have a history of epilepsy in your family, are under the age of 17, or have back issues.

I am going to start by paying my dues to my family and friends that are stuck in the horrible place that is called Idaho. This is in no Way a personal attack upon you or your heritage. I just forwardly apologize for your bad luck.

I will openly admit that I have had a vendetta towards Idaho to begin with. Everyone from Idaho thinks they are so great. And that Idaho is so great. Yet, they have to drive their sorry asses to Utah to participate in events that involve people. Concerts, fairs, basically anything that is fun in  life; it doesn't happen in Idaho. So, when the news trickled through that our family reunion would be held in Idaho at Lava Hot Springs, I was admittedly miffed. I have had fun at Lava Hot Springs in years prior. But, I was also young and stupid. So, I was packing my bag for the weekend trying to come up with a good excuse to not go aside from dismemberment. But, in the end, I couldn't come up with anything.

After the longest drive to Idaho I have ever experienced, I was happy to at least be able to lie in a bed for a minute, and dry the sweat off my back. When we pulled up to the motel, it looked more like something out of a horror movie than real life. People with limps were sauntering about. There was an orange cooler that was full of homemade moonshine and people standing around it talking in broken English. I knew that I may as well sacrifice any sleep I was hoping to get this weekend, Cause I was going to be staying up all night waring off drunks and meth addicts.

When we approached the front desk, a woman wearing a blood stained apron and missing teeth was happy to welcome us to Murder Mystery Motel. She issued us our room keys and offered us the password to the wifi. Which I accepted, but didn't use. I figured it was probably some sort of honing device used to shut off our phones so we cant call for help when the rape clan slinks into our room that night.

We went to our rooms, and it took us about 5 minutes to figure out how to open the door. The keys just didn't quite do the trick. There was some jiggling and jostling involved so as to stall any authorities you call. Which was all the more alarming to me. When we did finally get into our rooms, we we're unpleasantly surprised. One queen size bed, and three single beds were placed in a room that was roughly the size of my bedroom. The only thing that separated the bathroom from the rest of the room, was a shower curtain. So, this room was meant for really tight knit families who like to hear and smell whatever business is going on in the bathroom. I claimed my bed closest to the window and air conditioning unit, so as to drown out the screams of our neighbors being murdered. My bed wasn't even placed on an actual bed frame. It was some 2x4's and plywood nailed together in a makeshift box form. My sheets didn't match and looked like something that was at one point on my grandma's bed when she was 10 years old. 70 years ago. I was most excited to try and explain to everyone how I got pubic lice, but that I am still a virgin.

I think we were compromised for our black and white TV by having curtains made of fleece blankets, as the rest of the motel rooms had towels for their curtains. I looked under my bed to check for any dead people, and booby traps, and it seemed like the last time they actually cleaned under there was about the time that World War 2 ended. There was old confetti and socks that didn't even have a brand name on them. I felt it necessary to take a little walk and get some Idaho air in my lungs that didn't taste like a moldy house.

I walked out of our room and would lazily glance at all the windows to notice if anyone else had the fleece blanket upgrade, or they were all towels. As I walked past one room, the curtains were drawn. And I was so sorry that I looked in that window. There, sitting in a chair, was an older gentleman. He had a neck brace on, and was in some sort of assisted chair, and his pants and underwear were around his ankles, and he was sound asleep. How you could have the window open at such a time is still something I can't gather. I ran like hell back to my room to try and repent for seeing some other old mans funny parts. I knew then and there that I wanted to go back to Utah. If I woke up and someone stabbed me several times, I would walk outside, fill my wounds with dirt and sticks, and I would walk to Utah. Then I would take out my makeshift blood clots and bleed out happily on Utah soil. I refuse to die in Idaho.

This story is 100% true and unexxagerated. And I feel like this is a healthy reflection of what goes on in Idaho. Naked old men and murder motels. I usually think that everywhere has some sort of attraction that would make the trip worth it. However, I feel that Idaho is a strong exception to that rule.