In Loving Memory of Tony

One year ago today.... ish.... our friend, Tony, passed away. In reality he was blown away. Bryan shot him. Dead.

Tony was prairie dog, and like most prairie dogs, Tony loved to dig holes in the West Family yard. Unfortunately this posed certain danger to the family's horses who could break their legs by accidentally stepping in the holes.

Knowing of our talent in hunting, horsemanship, trapping, and other manly skills, the Wests invited us to help eliminate the prairie dog plague. We knew they also wanted us to model for pictures to be published various cowboy/rancher magazines, but we always do business first. That's our policy.

To use this picture in a cowboy/rancher magazine, or for tips about modeling
 for cowboy/rancher magazines, leave a comment below.

We are used to hunting with bazookas and hand grenades but they only had .22s so we used those. When in Rome... 

We knew that we didn't need to kill all of the prairie dogs, we only needed to kill their leader. You guessed it, Tony. If this top dog of under dogs was eliminated, then his dawgs were sure to quit dogging us.

Bryan, our expert marksman took his aim, and pulled the trigger. Tony fell over and kicked his legs into the air. He yelled his final words, "Eiik! Eichuthuckeikeik!" We think that is prairie dog for, "Remember the Alamo!"

Seeing the defeated Tony lay lifeless in the dirt touched something in Bryan's manly hunter heart. He began to lament the killing of this creature. It was kind of like in West Side Story when the human Tony got killed and everyone was like, "Dang, that escalated really quickly. Man, what were we thinking?"

Here is our conversation soon thereafter:

Bryan: I immediately regret this decision.
Tanner: Well, it's too late now. Tony is dead.
Bryan: King Tony
Tanner: Pardon?
Bryan: King Tony. His name is King Tony.
Tanner: He wasn't a king.
Bryan: He was a king to me!
Tanner: He was just a prairie dog.
Bryan: But he died like a king!
Tanner: Actually he died like a prairie dog.
Bryan: At least he died doing what he loved.
Tanner: Yeah, being a pest.

To mourn the passing of this great prairie dog leader, we held a graveside service. At the end, each of us poured a handful of earth over Tony's grave, all of us except Bryan, who held the dirt in his hand, as if comprehending a life after death where he could be together with his beloved Tony forever.

We left a grave marker that said, "Here lies Tony, proud father, digger, and yard pest. He is survived by his 83 children, all of whom are likewise named Tony. He had a lush garden, a beautiful woman prairie dog, and... a collection of Russian nesting dolls. May he rest in peace."

Though Tony is gone, his memory lives on. And that rhymes so it must be true. Tony was a true friend, and we loved him right up until the moment that Bryan shot him. We will never forget his love, his life, or his legacy. Rest in peace Tony!

Seriously, any cowboy/rancher magazine talent scouts out there, feel free to contact us.

                 

Story Time With Tanner: Mr. Bootcamp

I am discovering how therapeutic it is to blog about past experiences. Much more therapeutic than watching entire seasons of Leave it to Beaver in one sitting or recreating scenes from the Battle of Gettysburg with my sister's hamsters (They never get it right), which heretofore have been my primary forms of stress relief .

Today, I wish to talk about a figure from my past. His name is Mr. Bootcamp (name has been changed to protect the innocent, mostly myself. Who knows what would happen if he read this).

Mr. Bootcamp was my middle school gym teacher. Middle School was already wonky enough for me. I was a good foot (sometimes two) shorter than everybody else, which provided a bountiful share of nicknames like Small Fry, Shrimp, Bite Size, Short Stack, and Turkish Delight (They started with the food names and apparently got carried away). I had braces that were periodically busted off when I would fall off the top bunk on to the nightstand. It was also during that time that I was pressured into experimenting with certain risky substances. No not drugs! Who do you think I am?! I'm talking about Axe. Let me tell you, there is one surefire way to make a middle school locker room smell worse than a middle school locker room: excessive amounts of Axe body spray.

As stated above, Mr. Bootcamp was my gym teacher. I am calling him Bootcamp, because that is the topic that permeated, oh, 93% of his verbal communication. To this day, I'm not sure that he ever made it into the actual armed forces, for I never once heard a story beyond boot camp.

Mr. Bootcamp was tall, stocky, with a white beard and a bald head. He wore only white t-shirts that didn't quite cover his large hairy belly and khaki shorts that didn't quite cover his large hairy thighs. He made a "sh" sound when he pronounced the letter S, kind of like Sean Connery. So imagine if Mr. Clean and Sean Connery had a baby, a 6'5", 300 lb baby. That was Mr. Bootcamp.

Mr. Bootcamp loved surprises. Some times he would surprise us by giving us all spoon fulls of macadamia nut cookie dough. Other times he would surprise us by lifting his shirt to expose his belly. Sometimes both of those things would lead to surprise trips to the bathroom where we would throw up, to the surprise of the other people using the facility.

Mr. Bootcamp was an infamous fight-watcher. Where other teachers would break up fights, Mr. Bootcamp would watch with curious fascination. Mr. Bootcamp was limber. He taught tumbling and everyone would stand in awe as this bulky giant, wearing hiking boots and a grin, would perform somersaults and round-offs with all the grace and nimbleness of a Persian Swan.

He was strong. Though he could have boasted in his own strength and prowess, he preferred to set the bar with other kids in the class. "Look at Ross's pecks gentlemen. Yes, Ross (or Rosh as he would say) has some exshellent pecksh."

When we would run laps around the field he could be seen shooting at the kids with an imaginary rifle. He would say, "You boys are deer, and I'm shooting you with a shniper rifle. Just like at boot camp."

One day we were standing at attention in front of the pool. He called out, "Tobaco, shtep forward and exshtend your right arm and leg." Steven Tobaco did as he was told. With the finesse of a ballet dancer and the strength of an Olympic hammer-thrower, Mr. Bootcamp grabbed Tobaco's arm and leg, swung him around and then sent him sprawling into the pool. He landed on the gelatinous surface and after sinking briefly into the mold-colored depths, he started paddling around like a dog lost at sea. The rest of us were ordered into the water.

We usually did laps for somewhere between 10 or 15... hours..... After laps we were allowed to play an aquatic form of football in the shallow end. Well one day, a boy's nipple ring was ripped out during the game. When the boy with the bleeding chest told Mr. Bootcamp, the reply came with a resolute finger in the air, "We musht find the nipple ring! Men, search the area." For the next ten minutes we searched apprehensively for the missing ring. It was like a treasure hunt. Except instead of gold and jewels, we were looking for a bloody ring that had been ripped out of someone's nipple.

My best memory of the poolside antics of Mr. Bootcamp was the day that Emilio (name has been changed because I can't remember his real name) whipped a custodian with a towel. The custodian who was busy painting the wall with a long-handled paint roller was obviously upset because he immediately turned on the student, beating him down with the paint roller. When the kid had fallen down the janitor continued his lunges with the furor of a abstract expressionist painter. It would have been artistic, if not so bizarre. When Mr. Bootcamp approached, he paused for a moment, and then with all the wisdom of Solomon said, "Never mess with a man with a paintbrush." And that was it.

Now it's your turn. Tell us about the weirdest teacher you had.

The Most Terrifying Thing That Has Ever Happened to Me

After much counseling with my unlicensed psychologist (for a small fee Bryan learned the science of psychology from a sage in Mexico. Apparently the degree doesn't transfer to the U.S. as well as we would have hoped), I have decided to share THE MOST TERRIFYING EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE.

This story officially supersedes all other former terrifying experiences, including, but not limited to: saying, "Bloody Mary," in the bathroom in third grade, seeing Bryan in drag, and almost getting hit by a bus with Matt Loper on our way to watch Kal Ho Naa Ho.

Last Sunday I was walking to church in the early hours of the morning. The city was still and the rays of the rising sun glinted off the dew-speckled emerald grass. But all was not well. Trouble was stirring. 

From the bowels of the underworld emerged a black beast as filthy as sin. Spreading it's begrimed wings, it rose into the air like smoke from the inferno. Passing not but a few feet from my head it let out a screech that could cause a bowl of Lucky Charms to burst into tears.

A raven, or it's scientific name ravenius humongous evilus willprobablykillus. The raven is not a mere bird. It is a freak experiment created in the laboratories of Hell through a vile combination of feathers, black, talons, and evil. It is rumored that eyes of the raven are plucked from the very souls of the damned. The raven is the token symbol of death. The harbinger of doom and despair. The symbolic embodiment of malice.

The beast swooped over my head and landed on a low-hanging branch nearby.  Glaring at me with blatant contempt, it continued it's cacophonous caw. Once I had passed it made another lunge for my head. I ducked and quickened my pace. The persistant poltergeist perched on a pole ahead of me. Then like an arrow from the quiver of Beelzebub himself, another raven shot toward me, adding his own caterwauling to the dissonance of the first. Desperately I tried swatting at it, but my attempts to deflect their attacks were as futile as trying to keep Bryan from cookie dough. 

At that point my only thought was Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." I was sure to die. This was an omen. I started to run, and through my tears begged for deliverance, confessing every sin since childhood, even the ones I hadn't actually committed (like etching my sister's name into our leather couch and changing my mom's texting shortcut from "thx" to "that's what she said"). I wished that I could disappear, be banished to oblivion, or magically be transformed into a scarecrow. Anything to be rid of those birds!

(Side note: If it weren't such a horrific experience, I think I would like to have been a person watching from a nearby apartment. )

Through some miracle I finally reached the outer doors of the church building. I dashed in, slammed the doors, and screamed, "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" I fully expected the monsters to come smashing through the windows, but they didn't. A friend told me later that ravens have the ability to remember faces and hold grudges. I'm sure they are just down there in birdhell scheming and plotting to destroy me when I am out of reach of a dedicated building.

For the last week I have been on edge. I wonder if the other birds in the avian community are in on the conspiracy. Images of ravens flash like apparitions through my tortured consciousness and infest my sleep, making nightmares of even the most restful slumber.

When I first felt emotionally secure enough to recount the experience, I referred to the squawking spawn of Satan as "crows." However, I was informed that they were probably ravens, since ravens are notably larger than crows. Still, I have my doubts that they were even ravens. By their size and capacity to commit evil, I would say that they were pterodactyls, or probably the fellbeasts that the Nazgul ride in Lord of the Rings. (If they were Nazgul steeds, at least it would make sense why they attacked me; I do have hobbit-like features). 

Well folks, that's it. The most terrifying thing that has ever happened to me.

This post was a Katie blog hack. But it was so good we kept it up

Note from the editor: Ethel Epstein is a native of New Jersey who started writing this advice column in 1973. Since then she has helped countless people with her quick wit, concrete principles, and no-nonsense approach. After several requests we have added her column to the blog. It helps if you read with a New Jersey accent.

Dear Ethel,

I’m dating a man I can’t trust. I know he cheats on me all the time, in fact I’m not sure this child I’m carrying is even his. What should I do? Should I stay with him for my baby’s sake?

Sincerely,

Cheated on in Chicago

       Dear Cheated,

          

          I’ve said it once and I will say it again, you don’t need a man to complete you. If that man is cheating        on you then you don’t need him in your life, drop him before you have that little one dear. Your baby will  thank you for it, unless of course it is his daddy, in which case he might be very upset. Are you very certain he is cheating on you Hon?

           Maybe the two of you should talk things over and get to the bottom of all of this. It sounds like you need to get things figured out on your end too, you don't want to be known as the Frisky Freida of Chicago's Canasta Club. We have one of those at my Thursday Bingo nights, Oy what a hussy! Your baby doesn't need that. Remember, you are thinking for two now.

           I'm not judging, that's how I got on such good terms with Frank Sinatra, (that's a great story for another time) but I wouldn't really advise you to go down that path, Mia wasn't too keen on the whole idea. Come to think of it neither was my Charlie... there was a man that looked good in a uniform...very good... mmm takes me right back to '66 when he was drafted. I'm sorry, I'm getting a little verklempt... he never came back from Vietnam. Frank never came back to me either... not even after he and Mia called it splitsville two years after their sham of a marriage broke up. Let me compose myself....

       Hon, what you need to do is find out if this man is cheating on you. A good man is hard to find and even harder to keep. 

     Sincerely,

       Ethel

Ethel Epstein is a mother, cosmetician, fashionista, Christian, Jew, Bingo player, 2 time winner of the New Jersey State Lottery, and athlete (Gin Rummy). Questions to "Ask Ethel" may be posted in the comments section of this article.

Signs that you are an adult

1) You tuck in your shirt. This comes from a gradual recognition that you probably won't end up in a pickup game of baseball or tag. It's more likely that you'll run into some professional acquaintance or have to go to the bank.

2) You listen to Talk Radio. You used to listen to Rush and now you listen to Rush Limbaugh. It's a sad trade.

3) You start sentences with "Remember when..." Nothing says "old" like reminiscing about the good old days when the internet was still in black and white and you could buy a car for a nickel.

4) You file taxes. Part of being an adult is being a slave to the man. You must make real money and then have it taken away from you.

5) You know what APR means. There are several codes that you must understand in order to be a real adult. APR is one of them. No, it does not mean "Average Parental Rating." I have a feeling it has to do with mortgage (whatever that means).

6) You read the newspaper, and not just the funnies. Part of being an adult is finding fulfillment in the unfulfilling filler.

7) You part your hair or have parted with your hair. 'Nuff said.

8) You care about politics. As if there is more to life than light-up shoes and candy. Hmf, as if....

9) You give directions using North, South, East, and West. This skill comes with an awareness of a world that exists beyond your street. Still, tucked away in the corner of your heart you know that NESW really is a reminder to Never Eat Slimy Worms.

10) You eat bran cereal. Might as well go chomp on some woodchips. Can't sugar binge anymore? Yeah, you're probably an adult.

11) You like sleeping but you never get to. This is probably the biggest irony of being an adult.

Your turn. Tell us how you know you're an adult.

Short People Got No Reason

I'm sick of being treated like a second-class citizen. Everywhere I go, there are signs of blatant discrimination and unrelenting hatred toward me. It's not because I am a religious, white, Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual, middle class male; It's because I'm short.

One of my first brushes with heightism was in the 7th grade when the bus driver, Bruja (name has been changed), announced that I was too short to ride in the back of the bus.

While I was no Rosa Parks (refer to previous statement about being a white male), I had felt the sting of civil injustice, and I would not bow to it. When I got home, I began plotting a plot, scheming a scheme, planning a plan, and dreaming a dream. I worked feverishly into the night, fashioning posters to protest the discrimination.

The next day I distributed the signs to those sympathetic to my plight and then took my seat in the "tall people only" section of the bus. When Bruja told me to come to the front I signaled for the protest to begin. Chants of "Heck no! He won't go!" rang through the metallic walls of the portable prison. Painted posters that called for height equality shimmered in the afternoon sun. Finally, I stood, and with a voice not entirely conquered by puberty (okay, not at all conquered) said, "I have a dream that someday, tall people, short people, fat people and skinny people will all be able to ride in the back of the bus in harmony!" The bus erupted in cheers. My rights were won.

I stood a little taller that day. Actually I didn't. In fact I felt shorter because I realized how big everyone in the back of the bus actually was compared to me.

Since that day I have continued to be the victim of height crimes and discrimination. Nobody bullies the big strong kid. No, they pick on the little kid simply because he is little. It's hard for a young person to get an equally sized young person into a trash can. A small kid on the other hand, piece of cake. Shortcake.

Height crimes aren't limited to the Lord of the Flies social experiment we know as Junior High. Heightism has infiltrated into even the purest sectors of our society.

You doubt? Have you ever been to Disneyland? You would think that a park whose mascot is a mouse would be more friendly to the vertically challenged, but no.

"Must be this tall to ride" may seem like nothing to you, but to us short people, it is a flagrant assault on our identity as equal citizens. Shouldn't the God-given right to pursue happiness apply in the so-called "Happiest Place on Earth?" (Don't try to tell me that the "pursuit of happiness" doesn't include a churro and a turn on Magic Mountain). 

 

The hate doesn't stop at Disneyland. Prejudice, bigotry, and discrimination rage across the country.

 

 

 

Don't even get me started on basketball, the most heightist sport of all time. Well, you got me started so here I go. Basketball is an evil sport that favors altitude. The taller you are, the more successful you'll be. It's the only "profession" where your paycheck grows as you do. Talent schmalent. Shaq proved that as long as you are tall, you don't even have to be good at the object of the game (getting the ball in the basket, which of course is placed out of reach of small people) to become a celebrity gazillionaire. The mountainous man misses 52% of his free throws. Imagine going to a surgeon with that kind of success rate! 

"But what about Muggsy Bogues?" Hey, even a blind squirrel can find an acorn eventually. I've seen a white guy dance, that doesn't mean the rest of us can (unless of course we are playing Michael Jackson Just Dance. Trust me, it will change your life).

People ask me if I play basketball. I'm sure that their powers of deductive reasoning are honed enough to make some preliminary judgments about the kind of sports I play, yet they still ask. It's like asking if Donald Trump is good with kids. You should be able to tell just by looking. Let's be realistic people. You should be asking me if I play miniature golf  (I do).

It's time we stand up (Cue joke about telling a short person to stand up even though they are clearly already standing). It's time we level the playing field. Time is short (bad pun). We must act today. No more hard-to-reach shelves in the grocery stores and libraries! No more high heels for anyone over 5'6''! No more height limits on rides! No more violence! No more hate! They have a Big and Tall sections in the clothing stores, but where are the Short and Small sections? In the words of Jemaine Clement, "I'm a person. Brett's a person. That person over there is a person. And we all deserve to be treated like a person."

If you support the Equal Heights movement, please change your facebook profile picture to the icon below. Then overload your wall with posts about the issue. If anyone disagrees with you, call them a bigot and defriend them. Start internet fights with strangers. If you really want to show your support you can surgically remove height from your legs. Doing these things is the only way that the Supreme Court will ratify legislation to grant equal heights for all.

It's time that short people got a reason to live.

Ask Ethel- How to Win a Man

Take advice from Ethel, a good Christian Jew

Note from the editor: Ethel Epstein is a native of New Jersey who started writing this advice column in 1973. Since then she has helped countless people with her quick wit, concrete principles, and no-nonsense approach. After several requests we have added her column to the blog. It helps if you read with a New Jersey accent.

Dear Ethel,
   I have been a reader of your column since I was a little girl. I appreciate all the advice you've given over the years. Right now I'm trying to get the attention of a guy, but he doesn't seem to be interested. What do you think I should do?
-Lonely in London

Dear Lonely,
   Hon, (or should I say Lon?) you don't need a man to complete you. Trust me, I'm 42 years old and I've never ever touched a man. Seriously,  I am a wholesome woman who has never been polluted by such a primitive animalistic betrayal of principle.  I've been called the Mother Theresa of Jersey, because she too was unmarried (they also call me the Marilyn Monroe of Bingo night, but I'm not sure why). You probably won't reach that level of sainthood but you can always try.

You might ask,"Well what about children?" Let me tell you, my oldest child was born in 1960 and since that day he has never once complained that I was not enough of a parent for him, nor have any of the others. You will be just fine carrying on without a male. Though I will admit, they are nice on the eyes.... very nice.... you know I met Clark Gable at a bar once (though I've never tasted a drop of liquor!)... but that's a different story entirely.

Listen sister, if this so-called guy, isn't interested in you it's because A) he is blind or B) he is not blind and you need to work on your presentation skills. My website has a whole entire page dedicated to wooing a man with your appearance. I have personally tested each of the methods with 120% success rates.

Catching most men is like catching a disease. However, some men are decent and winning them is like winning the lottery (which I have one twice, though I've never gambled). Remember, a man is a natural hunter; he does not like being hunted. Let him come to you. In the mean time, fix yourself up, get into shape (there is a  picture of my hourglass figure on my website) find yourself a passion (men like women who have their own interests), develop your talents, work hard at your job or in school (I only went to the 8th grade yet I am successful because I'm a hard worker), and make food (I've baited many a man with my banana cream pies. Hey, nothing wrong with a little tasty treat to catch his attention). Avoid excessive giggling, saying inappropriate or rude things, dressing like a vamp, or wearing too much makeup. A real man wants a real woman not a girl or a flapper.

It's no use pining for a man who is not interested in you. Trust me, I used to swoon for John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and though we had several encounters I never could get him to see me as I saw me (in fact, after the restraining order I couldn't get him to see me at all). So, I left him behind. Now he is gone and I am still here. We all know who made the right decision.




Ethel Epstein is a mother, cosmetician, fashionista, Christian, Jew, Bingo player, 2 time winner of the New Jersey State Lottery, and athlete (Gin Rummy). Questions to "Ask Ethel" may be posted in the comments section of this article.

What your mission DIDN'T teach you about dating

"Yes President, I will go home and I will use everything I learned on the mission to get dates and get married." You say it and you mean it. After a final embrace with a man you have looked to as a father, you walk out of the mission office with your head (and its perfectly parted hair) held high. You are ready to move on, out, and up. Time to find my new companion, you think.

Soon you find yourself in a place like Rexburg, Idaho, where meetings about marriage are as common as conversations about the cold climate. And why shouldn't they be? I mean, to the outside observer, this place should be the Valhalla of dating right? 

It's a simple recipe:
Place some 13,000 ripe young single adults into a small mixing bowl.
Pepper them heavily with discourses and lectures about marriage
Let the mix sit in the freezer for 7 months
The result: (almost) instant wedding, and a lot of it!

Voila! It's a concoction that not even an elder can wind up burning..... or can he? Is it possible? Could Elder Superstar, the district leader to end all district leaders, the one who single-handedly taught 100 lessons in one week, the one who led 40 investigators to church through a blizzard, the greatest missionary since Paul, could he, this missionary of missionaries, mess up dating? The overwhelming response from the girls we talk to is "Yes! Very yes!"

But how? Haven't you applied everything you learned on the mission? Haven't you gone forward, armed with confidence, faith, and pristine polished shoes to find that one special girl, "the elect lady" with whom you can spend the rest of eternity? Haven't you done enough? Haven't you given it your all?

Here is something you might want to consider before taking someone out: not everything you learned on the mission translates to dating. Whaaaaaaaat? Buh buh buh, but my mission president said... I know what your mission president said. Mine said almost the same thing, but I don't think either of our presidents intended for us to date exactly like we preached. Certainly there are some timeless principles that can always be applied, but for the sake of your own salvation you must refrain from treating every sister like a potential investigator and every date like a discussion. Sisters if this is not a real problem then I invite you to chime in.

Now Elder,  I know you're used to a rigid structure and a tedious schedule, but things are a little more casual on This Side of Heaven. There is no "Date My Daughter" manual to tell you the perfect formula for dating success. There are, however, a few things that will help you NOT make your dating life a mission impossible. So loosen up the necktie and meditate upon these things:

• Unlike investigators, you don't need daily contact with the girl you're interested in. It's okay to let the savor of your last encounter sink in for a couple days. I know too many guys who have scared away girls because they insist on daily dates, phone calls, (not-so-pleasant) surprises, etc. Give her room to breathe and think. Don't go overboard. Take it easy and be natural.

• Hug. It's okay. Save the handshake for Sunday. Don't be afraid to wrap those farmer's tanned arms around a girl when you say goodnight. For anyone needing to re-learn how to hug, Bryan will be giving classes at 2 pm on Thursdays. Don't be embarrassed, we all need help sometimes.

• NO COVENANT COMMITMENTS ON THE FIRST DATE. Period.

No more companion. Time to fly solo.

• Not every situation is an opportunity to find someone to date. ie: the 2nd floor of the library, a family reunion, and the testing center, to name a few. 

• Don't invite others (especially your roommates) to participate in a date unless it's a group date. 

• After the date, do not ask for referrals.  

• Street contacts are even less effective here than they were there. Unless it's Ryan Gosling, most girls don't like being asked out by a total stranger. (Don't try to argue girls. I've heard too many complaints and too many verses of "Don't Fear the Creeper" to believe that you actually like it. You know the difference between cute and creep is attractiveness, and frankly, most of us aren't attractive enough).

• Tracting= Unattracting. It doesn't work. You can make friends that way (friends can then become more than friends) but don't knock doors with the intent of finding The One. 

• Don't fill your day with as many dates as possible. There are a few terms to describe that kind of guy, and none of them are nice.

• Don't schedule an appointment in a planner. Ask for her number and put it in your phone, then call her some time when she's probably not very busy.

• You are not on a date to teach or promote a cause. You are there to get to know her. So ask some questions, build that relationship of trust, and have some fun! 

• Old habits are hard to break but try to avoid referring to yourself as "we," or your roommate as "my companion." And for heaven's sake, don't point to where your tag used to be when you tell someone your name.

 
• Stop expecting people to make you food. Women want a provider not a parasite ------------------>

• You can only set the date with one person. There can only be one "progressing investigator."

• Observe curfew, but you don't have to be home at 9:30. On the other hand, don't feel like a date has to go all night either! 

• Don't walk so fast. Your greenie hated it when you walked so fast and your date will too. Slow down and enjoy her company. Remember, the activity isn't important; she is. 

• Avoid falling into missionary jargon. "I know that I will be a very good husband to you, and that if you date me, and pray about it, you will too." Besides the fact that the Lord doesn't have to back up every promise you make, that approach also tends to scare people away.

If you have any other advice to offer these brethren, please feel free to post it below.


  

TannerG: It's more than energy

From the brilliant mind of Sterling "The Yellow Dart" Smith comes:

       Do you fall asleep in class or work? Are you feeling drained and fatigued? Do you need energy ASAP but can't seem to get it? You don't need energy, you need TannerG! This isn't your average "swallow and wallow" energy drink that leaves you buzzed for an hour and then sends you crashing into physical and emotional despair; this is a science tested energy enhancer that will give you hulk-like energy for up to 15 days... and then will send you crashing into physical and emotional despair! TannerG's patented method of temporarily restructuring your DNA will give you energy like you've never had before!

       TannerG is a proven product capable of giving you stimulation beyond your wildest dreams. Seriously. Beyond wildest dreams. Every can contains at least one ounce of Tanner's own sweat, blood and tears. From the sleek black can to the delicious taste (most taste testers agreed that "it tastes just like a penny!") you are going to love TannerG. For only $6.99 a can, you can fundamentally transform your world into a speeding rocket of fast-motion power.

        For a mere $14.00 we will give you double, that's right, DOUBLE the amount of TannerG. That's a deal you can't find at the store. If you aren't satisfied with TannerG then put it in your car. That's right, 1 cup of TannerG is the equivalent of 3 gallons of diesel fuel. 

        TannerG hasn't yet been tested on humans, but the results have been stunning on our animal test subjects. All 24 of our test rats showed increased activity of up to 8,000%. Unfortunately all of them died within minutes of consumption due to circumstances totally unrelated to the experiment. (We assume it was old age. Who is our rat supplier and how do we go about suing them for providing faulty old rats?) Allegations that the rat deaths are somehow connected to drinking TannerG are simply a Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc, absolute poppycock. 



Do not drink TannerG if you have been diagnosed with or ever been under the vague suspicion that you might have problems relating to the brain, heart, stomach, lungs, intestines, skin, pancreas, appendix, foot, elbow, chin, or self esteem. Drinking TannerG may cause ulcers, aneurisms, cardiac arrest, pulmonary failure, cancer, rapid chest hair growth, fingernail sensitivity, blindness, tone-deafness, blood clots, stroke, paralyzation, loss of teeth, mood swings, depression, seizures, vomiting, gout, scurvy, and acne. Tanner and Bryan are not legally responsible for any accidents that may occur while drinking TannerG.
   

The Life of the Rich and Famous

Well, I'm not that famous, and I'm definitely not rich. So I guess it's not the life of the rich and famous. More like, "The Life, and that's it," or "The Life of the Single Student." Moving on...

After the power went out in Rexburg, my roommates and I made this little video as a parody of "Sweet Brown's Cold Pop Escape" (if you don't know what I'm talking about, take a quick jaunt around youtube). For those of you who missed it, here it is:

 

The video was an instant hit. In less than 24 hours it had over 10,000 views. All sorts of people began watching and sharing our video. I guess you could say it went viral (for those of you over 30, this has nothing to do with the flu).

The video was even featured on the BYU-I Admissions and Overheard at BYU-I facebook pages and seen by notable figures.

Instant fame. People stopped when we passed by and whispered to their friends, "It's those guys from the video." Strangers asked if they could take our picture. People threw goodies and daisies at us. It was all the fame and fortune a person could hope for...

Sort of. Not really. Actually, we are not that famous and heaven knows we aren't any richer, but it was a neat experience.

Beyond viral videos on the social media scene, I have found further facets of my fame in a magazine. Open your September 2012 edition of the Ensign. Turn with me to page [licks his thumb] 39 (or is it 42? Well, just thumb around until you find this picture).

But Tanner, that doesn't look like a picture of you? In fact, it doesn't look like a picture at all. Well, that's because it's a painting of me as a bearded Jaredite done by none other than the illustrious Albin Veselka.

In the fall of 2011 I modeled for Brother Veselka (a counselor in my ward) who submitted this painting in the annual LDS art competition. This piece won the merit award, Brother Veselka received the honors, and I ... well, I am just thankful that I was painted with a beard.

So there you have it, the life of the slightly famous and much less rich.