It's that time of year again. The air is crisp and smells of autumn leaves, it's getting dark earlier, and it's almost time to vote. As a registered independent, I tend to send a fair amount of snark towards candidates from both parties. Republicans and Democrats are known to do/say a fairly equal amount of stupid stuff, and I often have a hard time deciding who I like less.

This year feels a little different, though, and unless he punches a fawn or gets caught wearing "I Heart Osama" underpants, I think Mr. Obama is going to get my vote. Here are some (admittedly shallow) reasons you should Barack the vote in '08 as well:

Let's be real: do you want a guy who looks like a reanimated corpse running the country?

Sarah Palin, in the grand tradition of such illuminated minds as George W. Bush, believes that we should keep nookyoolar weapons out of the hands of terrorists. Seriously, I know English can be tricky, but this one is actually spelled like it sounds!

McCain=Lord of the Zombies. I cannot stress it enough.

Of the two major party candidates, only Obama seems to be able to actually fully turn towards his opponent and refer to him by name. Is it really so tough, Johnny? He ain't go' bite ya.

"McCain" almost rhymes with "I eat brains". I am not making this up, guys.

Sarah Palin is somehow capable of spending $150,000 of campaign contributions on a new wardrobe, but can't afford a $19.95 hardbound copy of a salon style guide that contains more than one hairdo option.

This picture:



Obama knows how many houses he owns: 1. McCain will need to get back to you on that. That sells really well in an economy-focused election, Mr. Maverick.

A vote for John McCain is a vote for utter and total annihilation by the unspeakable armies of the damned. Did I mention that yet?

This is my nephew, Hunter, who without question is the cutest nephew that can ever be (I've seen your nephew; he's just not as cute. I don't know - maybe it's that tooth thing he has. It's like it's almost a tooth, but it's not. You know? Also: his head's kind of a weird shape).

Anyway, back to my nephew: Hunter is the cutest. He's even cuter when he dresses up like slightly fey pirates with ol' Uncle Shane*. Unfortunately for this photo shoot, earrings were as far as we got before Hunter decided it would be fun to throw toys at my head. But look how cute he is, seriously!

My little buddy just moved to Vallejo, California for three years and I miss him fiercely. Well, we'll always have "Hunter, what does a pirate say?"

Yarrgh, little buddy. Yarrgh indeed.



*Promotional consideration (plastic earrings) provided by Mr. Potato Head (R)

I just got back from several days of getting up close and personal with Ms. Nature in Huntington, Utah. This was my first camping trip in a while, and as I was driving home in my air-conditioned car listening to my iPod, I reflected on the things I had learned about myself. I now share them with you:


S'mores will always make me want to throw up and die a little inside. I can't even look at them.

The starry expanse of the night sky away from city lights still sends the same little thrill through me that it did when I was a kid. Man, we are SMALL!

I am so pathetically vain that I don't even hesitate to pack cologne and styling wax into my backpack alongside the bug spray and Neosporin.

When I go four-wheeling with a group of seven people, my face will somehow attract more dirt by the end of the trip than the other six combined.

There is nothing on this planet more thrilling and soul-destroyingly boring to me at the same time than fly fishing.

Even when her hair and face are filthy and matted almost beyond recognition by three days of dust, sunscreen and insect repellent, I still think Riley's cute.

My brain becomes so paranoid in the fresh mountain air that it instantly interprets any twig breaking outside of the tent as a 2 a.m., coordinated multi-grizzly attack.

I possess previously unknown horseshoe-throwing skills, and have a "Winner of the Summer 2008 Vuksinick Family Tournament" medal to prove it.

I can only be in camp an hour before the first impulse to check my email strikes.

If I want to guarantee that I wake up in a foul mood, all I need to do is make sure that my face brushes against the clammy condensation on the inside of a sweaty tent at the crack of dawn. It's all downhill from there.

When I stare into a campfire, instead of reflecting on the beauty and romance of the dancing flames, I think about what items would be fun to throw in there and watch explode.

I would have lasted about twenty minutes on the Lewis and Clark expedition.

I've noticed a troubling trend of late. It concerns that most common and humble of articles: "the". "The" is an old and faithful friend in the English language, and is one of the first words Dick and Jane taught us. Our friends the Spaniards, among others, hold "the" in such high esteem that they give it a gender. Such an honor! The usually efficient Germans, bless them, take it one step further, adding an unfortunately named "neutered" form of "the" to the masculine and feminine types. What other three-letter word has received such respectful treatment?

Of course, "the" is not without its detractors. The Russians, in the apparent interest of having creepy accented movie villains, have omitted "the" from their vernacular. "Where is rocket launch key to destroy imperialist Americans, comrade?" just wouldn't have the same menace if a "the" or two were involved.

Here in America, though, "the" has a long and proud history. A history that is now being tarnished. You see, back in the old days (pre-1980s), "the" was wielded much more cavalierly than it is today. Our pioneer ancestors were constantly griping to one another about "the consumption", "the bloody flux", or "the conjunctivitis*". It rapidly grew tiresome throwing a "the" in front of every affliction, and soon the word was being used much more sparingly, with the restraint and dignity it so richly deserves.

Fast-forward to today. "The" is now quickly becoming that girl your parents warn you about. You know, the one who's been linked to every noun, proper and otherwise, on the street. "The" is the Elizabeth Taylor of articles. A grammatical polygamist, if you will. And it's got be stopped.

"Let's go to the Wendy's for a Frosty," is something I hear all too often, even from those so near and dear to me. "I hear that Pamela Anderson's got the Hep C," you catch yourself saying to your dry cleaner. "I read a disturbing article in the USA Today," comedian Stephen Colbert will declare on his hit Comedy Central show, completely ignorant to the semantic crime he is committing.

Save the "the", I urge you. It's not too late to rescue this precious resource. Join me in exercising self-control in speech, writing, and thought. Future generations will thank us for preserving a few "the"s for them.


*pinkeye to you and me

Sometimes stores reuse displays after the original product is sold out. If said displays are restocked by an inattentive/stupid employee, hilarity can ensue.

This is one direct-to-DVD film that I wish the Disney sequel machine had actually pumped out. I would NOT want to be that hunter right now...

Few things please me more than well-done satire. LDS humor has been pretty hit and miss (usually miss) for me in this regard. That's why I'm so thrilled to direct you to seriouslysoblessed.blogspot.com. Written by an anonymous and brilliant wit, this site absolutely skewers the young and married LDS blogging world. Utah Valley slang? Check. Abominable grammar and syntax? Check. Sucralose-sweet gushing and hyperbole? Check and Check. I've actually read some of these sentences verbatim on peoples' blogs. Stop by for a minute and enjoy.

WARNING: if you've ever written anything like this in your blog, get ready for a serious case of the blushies.