I Have Seen Hell, and It's Hair was Spiky

Today was the first day of classes for the fall semester up here at BYU. I left my friend Matt's apartment after watching him play Starfox on his N64 for like an hour and made my way to my second class of the day, Chemistry 101. My first class was inconsequential, Civilization and Music. The only interesting thing is that my Professor is British.

I had been up here all of Summer term so I was feeling pretty good about knowing my way around campus. I found my class and took a seat. The professor was old, and according to his reviews on rate my professor, not very engaging. I soon discovered that was true. Oh well, science is meant to be boring. (I don't care if you like science, unless you are a Mythbuster you are probably a boring person.) The most exciting part of the class came when he blew up a bunch of balloons filled with Nitrogen and made a huge fireball. That's all I really remember.

As I left class, my attention was immediately caught by a beautiful woman walking directly in front of me. It is not an uncommon occurrence to be in the vicinity of at least three beautiful women at any given time on this campus. The plethora of attractive females here creates a phenomenon that makes it seem as though the sidewalks are paved with gold and the drinking fountains dispense cold lemonade. I wanted to talk to her but I didn't because I'm more than less of a coward and I think she was married anyway.

I scanned my schedule for the location of my next class when all of a sudden I was launched into a weird moment of reminiscing. I instantly recalled my first day of middle school.

I remember obsessively checking my schedule to make sure I was in the right class and feeling really cool because I was actually going from class to class instead of staying in one classroom all day. My standards for feeling cool really haven't changed I guess cause I felt really cool today walking from class to class in college. Sure I'm a lame freshman, but it's whatever.

I remember the night before my first day at Rosemont Middle School, aka, Satan's Vacation Home, I found a box of my Dad's old sweaters and I don't know why but I thought it would be a good idea to wear one of them on my first day of school. As it turns out the reaction of 12 and 13 year olds seeing some kid wearing a giant old man sweater is not, "Oh he is cool and different, let's be his friend!" It's more like: "Kill him." So right off the bat I was behind on the whole friend making thing.

I walked into my first class, which was English, and for some reason the two other kids who were already in there were just standing by their desks not sitting down. I assumed they knew more than me so I just stood by my desk too, thinking, "wtf why can't we sit? is this a middle school thing or something? Why doesn't anyone like my sweater?"

As more kids filed in they saw us standing and they didn't know what to do either so they just stood by their desks too. So we were all just standing there for no reason when the teacher walked in and told us to sit down and asked why we were standing.

I'm sorry. That was a terrible story that I just told, it had no point and there was no punch line so I apologize for telling it. I guess I could just delete it, negating the need for this apology, but I already wrote and I hate to waste things. I guess I'm a story hoarder, I can't throw them away no matter how disgusting or terrible they are.

You know what, I take back part of my apology (again I could just delete my apology negating the need for this take-back but it's whatever). I take back part of it because this story does have a purpose; it reminds me of how clueless and naive I was that day. (I have no idea if the use of that semi-colon in the last sentence was correct, I never really learned what those are used for, but I'm gonna leave it there cause I think it may be right. If not, then well, I don't care.)

I was forced into a completely foreign environment without any real friends and teachers that would rather make you feel bad about yourself than treat you like a human being. In their eyes, being 12 years old automatically made you guilty of everything,and they took on the role of prison guard rather than instructor.

In my math class I saw the prettiest girl ever. At least I thought she was. I remember when it came time to switch seats I wished so hard to sit next her and then I actually ended up being assigned as her seat partner. On this inside I was shooting of fireworks and swift-kicking all of the other guys in my class in the face, but in reality I just sat down and proceeded to not say a single word to her for three months. Actually that's a lie because one time she asked me, "Why do you always wear old man sweaters?"

And I just said:

"I don't know."

and sighed.

I think she felt bad for me, because one time she waved to me in the hallways. Or maybe she was in love. I guess I'll never know. But I'm pretty sure it's because she felt bad.

Fast forward to today. In college. The time went somewhere, I just wasn't there to see it go by. At least that's what it seems like. Almost as if I went to bed after that first day of middle school and woke up the next morning in my dorm room.

I am no longer afraid to talk to that pretty girl sitting next to me in Chemistry, though I am incapable of making it so she doesn't pity my poor attempts at conversation.

I am also incapable of doing simple mathematics as it took me three attempts on my online homework tutorial to correctly calculate the sum of 9360 and 3140.

Is it a bad sign that I got legitimately nervous when my Chemistry class prerequisites were listed as "An understanding of basic mathematical principles"?

Probably.

The Rooster Crows at Midnight

Things don't always work out the way you want. I used to own three chickens and a rooster. They lived in a coop we built in our backyard and I loved them. Except the rooster. Every night I would have to put the rooster in one of those carriers you put your cats in to travel or go to the vet or something, and then put him in the garage. This was necessary because apparently the neighbors didn't enjoy being awoken at the crack of dawn by the screechy crowing of a flea infested farm bird. The combined muffling of the cat carrier, the blanket over the cat carrier, and the garage itself was enough to keep the neighbors from complaining about the noise.

The rooster quite clearly resented this situation and he let me know it. This bird I speak of was born straight from the depths of hell. His feathers were preened and groomed by the devil himself, I am sure. Every night, when I would go to collect the rooster I had to arm my self with plastic whiffle bat. It was the only thing the infernal buzzard was afraid of. Sometimes though, I didn't have the bat and I was forced to face that fowl beast one on one, my physical prowess against his. (Which was considerable, especially in comparison to a chubby 11 year old.)

He would spread his ugly black wings and cluck various chicken threats directed at me. I would shakily stand my ground for about 10 seconds before the rooster, smelling my fear, would bull rush me and commence its attack on my calves.

I would run away in complete and horrendous terror, never looking looking back at the beast that was no doubt, right behind me. I would have to make it to the stair case leading to the back door because once there, he wasn't able to follow me. I knew though, that just like his ancestor the velociraptor, the rooster would soon learn how to climb the steps, open the back door, find me where I slept, and pluck my eyes out. This fear paralyzed me.

My father, Floyd, turned this into a teaching moment.

"Son" he said, "All you have to do is look that rooster in the eye and say 'NO!' when he tries to come at you and he will back off. Trust me."

For some reason I trusted him.

He ushered me out the back door and sent me to the back of the garage to face my enemy. I walked out there with all the confidence of a 12 year old girl going to hang out with boys for the first time. (in retrospect, it was wayyyyy too much lip gloss.)

I opened the door of the coop.

There he was. standing stock still, as if he had been waiting for me. Our eyes locked and he slowly spread his wings. The exchange went like this:

Rooster: "Can I help you?"(He took a few steps forward.)

Me: "No!" (very forcibly)

Rooster: "Excuse me?"(a few more steps forward)

Me: "No!" (still strong, but fear beginning to creep in)

Rooster: "I'm sorry, I'm just having a very hard time hearing you."(more steps)

Me: "No!" (almost no strength left, mostly fear)

Rooster: "Oh you're saying no to me? is that it? is that what you're saying?" (he moved even closer)

Me: "No?" (No strength, absolute fear)

Rooster: "I"M GOING TO KILL YOU!!!"

I turned and ran as the devil-bird launched his attack. It was a race for the back staircase. Man vs. Beast, beast having the upper hand. I could see my Father standing at the top of the stairs, looking utterly shocked that his strategy had somehow failed. I was less than 5 feet from safety (about 1.5 meters for my European readers) when the rooster launched himself and with the precision of a laser guided missile, embedded his beak into the back of my leg. I had lost.

I limped up the stairs to where my father was standing. An awkward moment passed as we stood there not saying anything and blood trickled down my leg. I think he was trying not to laugh. I just shook my head and went inside.

After that I would periodically "forget" to get the rooster out of the garage in the mornings after he was done crowing. Also I learned that actions speak much louder than words because a few well placed kicks when he wasn't looking kept the incidents to a minimum from thereon out.

Eventually we sent the rooster to live on our cousin's farm where it was consequently eaten by a coyote. Sweet sweet justice.

Members of PETA can send their emails here: shutup@beefisdelicious.com

Everyone else here: jwalters@thesneakynarwhal.com

The Guitar Guy Cometh

Everybody in the world plays guitar. Except for me. At least that’s what it seems like whenever I venture out of the cave that is my dorm room to take in the festivities of the J Hall lobby. I never had the patience to sit down and actually learn how to play the guitar. The maybe one time I tried I simply remember it being extremely difficult to move my hand around the frets or whatever they’re called and successfully strum with the other. I was too impatient and frustrated to actually make a serious go at it. It was then that I resolved I would never be able to woo any co-eds with my sultry rendition of the latest Coldplay song. From what I have observed, this is the main reason behind the public guitar playing: impressing the female folk. I am more pleading than anything when I say that it has got to stop. The guitar guys have got to go.

This wouldn’t be an issue if it were rare for a male freshman in college to be able to play the guitar. Unfortunately, any guy with an ample amount of free time, no matter how lame or unattractive they are, can learn to play chords. These chords then allow them to play just about any popular song their heart desires. This creates an environment, or even a community, which is known as “the guitar guy circle”. The main part of this circle is the “guitar guy”. He is the one who has control of the guitar and is in the process of either wooing girls, or one-upping another guitar guy. The rest of the circle consists of the spectators. These are the guys and girls who have decided to sit there and listen to the guitar guy as he strums away in that sweetly sensitive manner of his. The guitar guy would have you believe that his playing in a public setting was completely impromptu and he never intended for anyone to sit around and listen. This is a lie. While he may make it seem like he happened to “find” the guitar simply lying around, the reality is an elaborate plan in which he made sure the right audience was around before he started playing.

This is the first reason why we should not put up with the guitar guy. He is a deceiver. He would have you believe that his first interest and goal for the public displays of his so-called talent is just because he simply loves playing music. If this were the case, there is no lack of empty music practice rooms in the basement of the dorms where you can more than adequately satisfy your innate need for musical production. This is, of course, not a viable option for a true guitar guy. He needs to be seen, to be heard, which leads to the second reason why his actions are not okay.

The guitar guy is inherently self-centered. He boasts in his own strength and is confident that other people want to be just like him. This is the main reason why he gets on my nerves. He uses his guitar playing to give himself a sense of entitlement. When he sings, we hear, “Look at the stars! Look how they shine for you!” the words to a popular Coldplay song, but what he is actually singing is, “I’m going to steal your girlfriend.” Granted this shouldn’t bother me since I don’t have a girlfriend for him to steal, but the principle of the matter is that he is using manipulative and sneaky ways to win the hearts of beautiful women. Just as using a net to snatch fish out of a lake is not allowed in most states, the same should be true for snatching females out of the lake with a few minor chords.

Jealousy isn’t my only reason for hating the guitar guy. It is because of him that the true, humble talent of certain individuals is stifled and never observed even when it deserves to be. I use my roommate as an excellent example. He is extremely gifted musically. More so, I would say, than the average student at this University. He shares my sentiments about the guitar guys. They create an image that all guys who play guitar are recognition seeking attention hoarders. This is not the case. There are those out there, like my roommate, with amazing talent who are also humble. The correct way to go about sharing your talents is use humility when doing so. There is nothing wrong with picking up a guitar and singing a song when someone else suggests you do so or you are in an intimate setting with your close friends. It is when you seek recognition that your guitar playing becomes more of a nuisance than quality entertainment.

It is good to develop your talents. However, there is a time and place for everything and in the lobby of the dorm halls is not that place. Not only is it bothersome to those around you but it also sends the wrong message. The message is that you are more worried about impressing people and showing off than actually making music. It is an blemish on the face of musicianship when you seek attention from others for your talent. It is much more respectable if you merely mention the fact that you happen to play the guitar rather than feel it necessary to show everybody. If those around you are truly interested in your talent then they will request that you share with them. Otherwise I sincerely plead with you to keep it to yourself. Go somewhere private to woo your woman, that’s the most tactful way to do it. Spare the rest of us the agony of listening to your sensitivity and passion put into a fixed set of popular songs. My opinion of the kind of person you are thanks you.

Sleep Deprivation

Take a moment and think to yourself, if you were stranded on a desert Island and you could have any two items that would fit in a backpack with you, what would they be? For me that's easy, Lembas Bread and Rare Candy.

For those of you who know what I'm referring to, either by your own knowledge or by clicking the links, then you realize that I'll last as long as I need to on that island with very little to no trouble at all.

On a completely unrelated note, I recently didn't sleep at all for an entire night. It was terrible. At first I was fine, feeling good, high on life, and then things started deteriorating.

I stayed up all night because the next morning was when I was flying back to America from Italy, where my classmates and I had been on a choir tour. It's an approximately 12 hour flight, and on the way to Italy I slept very little on the plane and it was terrible.

SO in order to ensure that I would sleep on the plane, I didn't sleep at all the night before. And you know what? It was fun. I was surrounded by great people who were doing the exact same thing as me and I had some great conversations.

But let me tell ya, you have significantly fewer inhibitions when you're severely sleep deprived. I definitely said some things I normally wouldn't have and shared some secrets that probably should have gone to the grave but hey, I was among friends and the room was so warm and the time just seemed so right.

Around 5 am I took a shower and that made me feel wide awake/awesome. Then we loaded onto the bus to go to the airport and I'm pretty sure my body was attempting to shut down without my consent. It was horrible. I broke out in a cold sweat and my stomach got all queasy. I was still being really talkative when we got to the airport though and I'm pretty sure I attempted a feeble joke with with the lady checking my luggage that went something like this:

Lady: "Is this your bag?"

Me: "No, my wife's parking the car"

Lady: "Here's your boarding pass"

While we waited to board the plane I dozed off but woke up quite violently a few minutes later because I was sure I was peeing myself, but upon further investigation it was proved that it was a false alarm and had simply been urinating within a dream I was having. (Which when I think about it, is a terribly boring dream.)

The plane ride was hell. Of the probably 300 seats on the plane, mine was the only one with an entertainment screen thing that didn't work. So while everyone else was enjoying great movies and television shows, I was left to contemplate whether or not the woman sitting next to me really expected me to not notice the boogers she was wiping on the side of her chair.

A little into the flight though I took some Benadryll and threw back a couple Melatonin which knocked me out for a good 6 hours. But then I didn't sleep the rest of the way. It was horrible.

If I were faced with the same situation, I probably would stay up all night again.

I just remembered that I wrote a poem on a napkin on the plane in my sleep deprived state, and it was awesome, but I don't remember it because the Stewardess threw it away. Curses.

P.S. You can send me feedback by emailing me at brothajacobis@hotmail.com. That'd be cool.

Also follow me on Twitter. @brothajacobis.

Also bake me cookies

Also shine my shoes

Also DO EVERYTHING FOR ME. ME ME ME ME ME. PAY ATTENTION TO ME.

Nine to Five

The prospect of having to enter the professional world at some point in the near future doesn't scare me, it just really bums me out. I work for my Dad, Floyd, at his office. He's a mortgage broker and has been running his business since the late eighties. I work there now cause I really feel incapable of finding an actual job somewhere else. I always fill out applications but then when I try and follow up on them I get really nervous/awkward and never do.

I'm very open with Floyd and I often tell him that I hate my job. It's fine with him because he knows I'm too lazy to get a different one. I don't have an official job title so I labeled myself as the Office Administrator/Entertainer. My main job is to scan the old loan files into the computer and then burn them onto password encrypted Cd's. It's such a boring job that I got bored just typing that description. The scanner literally jams itself every 2 seconds, frustrating me to no end. I have elaborate daydreams of taking a sledgehammer to the stupid thing. (your probably thinking, 'How elaborate can those daydreams be?' but trust me, they get intense, including sometimes when I imagine several lines of dialogue between myself and the copier, whose voice is Alec Baldwin's)

At one point I got a hold of a label maker cause I was charged with Labeling something, I don't even know what, but after I finished that I made a label that said "Nothing of Consequence" and put it on the fire-proof filing cabinet that contains very very important stuff. I thought it was funny, Floyd did not. It's still there though and is a hopeful reminder that I might one day rise above corporate bullying and do absolutely nothing for a living.

The Boss very recently hired someone new. She sits at the desk closest to mine and she is very nice but a combination of my awkwardness and desire to not talk to anybody creates very stunted and sometimes less than friendly conversations. For instance the other day I was listening to my iPod:

Her: "What are you listening to?"
Me: "The Shins"
Her: "Oh I thought it was something else"
Me: "Yup"

Who knows though, we might become the best of friends eventually and whenever the boss leaves the office giggle and gossip about him. To reach this level of friendship is on my list of workplace goals, along with finding out where the thermostat controls are and eating an entire sleeve of thin mints in one shift. My previous goal of making the water cooler the cool place to hang out during breaks didn't work, it ended up just being me thinking up mean rumors that I could spread about fictional co-workers.

My favorite is when I get to run errands. Usually it's just to wash Floyd's car, which is awesome because then I get to play the Arcade games at the car wash. The other day I was charged with buying a new vacuum cleaner for the office because the other one had literally been in use since 1992. Floyd finally caved and bought a new one when the old one ceased existing in one piece, and even in that state I had to use it for a few months.

This post makes me look like a terrible employee and I'm not really going to deny that it does. But if there are any potential employers reading this, don't believe a single word you've just read. It is all a lie.

Hire me.

Please.

An Ode to Tools

A Tools World

by Jacob Walters

/

I awoke with a start

the day had begun

my eyes barely open

my alarm loudly rung.

/

I took off the sunglasses

That I wear while I sleep,

Cause the sun never sets

on this cool, awesome peep.

/

I yawned a big yawn

and walked down the hall

we were out of Reese's Puffs,

so I punched through a wall.

/

I yelled at my mom

for a minute or two

then I showered and dressed

and took a pic of my pooh.

/

Sleeveless and shaved

my arms looked real good.

Hat and pants in the style

I always see in the hood.

/

Fire up the Prius,

drink a Monster or two.

Gotta get my fix,

cause you know how I do. (*shirt flick*)

/

Roll into school

chin always up in the air

Walk like I've got

something stuck up in there.

/

Running late to my class.

pshhh it's whatever,

I'm gonna be an MMA fighter

I don't need to be clever.

/

Call all the girls babe,

sweety, cutie, and honey

when in reality I get

with the girls that are funny...looking.

/

The weekend, it's coming,

I'm pumped out of my mind.

I wanna go crazy

but there's so little time.

/

I bring my guitar

everywhere that I go

I can play 3 different chords

and I want everyone to know.

/

My crew is legit

we always roll phat

and we've all got cool nicknames

like Vinny and Pat.

/

On the weekends we cruise

in Mikey's 350 Z

trolling for babes

and any hot mom's that we see.

/

We fill water balloons

with our bodily fluid

then fling them at cars

and old women, cause they're stupid.

/

So as you can see,

my life ain't no joke.

'till ten years from now,

when I'm strung out on coke.

/

So maybe I should stop

acting like such a fool,

but that would be impossible

because I'm a tool.

*END*

So yeah, that's a poem that I wrote. I made myself angry while writing it just cause the main character guy is such an idiotstupidface.

BONUS STANZA THAT I COULDN'T USE CAUSE IT DOESN'T RHYME:

My earphones hang loosely,

from the front of my shirt

even though they're not plugged into anything

I just want people to know that I'm really into music and listening to it and stuff.

It Could've Been Drugs

I'm not going to apologize for not posting in a while because I always find it so pretentious when people do that. It's like, "I'm sorry for not posting in a while, thus depriving you of how awesome I am." when in reality there is a total of 7 people who read your blog and they didn't even notice how long it's been since the last post about the new comforter your roommate Rachel got for Kwanzaa. Sheesh.
So no, you won't see any apologies on this blog, because we here at The Narwhal think it is very important to be humble. You don't need us telling you how awesome we are.*(Notice how I said we, as if I have a staff working for me. Nope, just me...and my schizophrenia .)

I've only been admitted to the hospital once and it was really lame and I hesitate to tell this story (ha! not really though). But something happened during this whole incident that really intrigued/bothered me and I'd like to share to see what you think.

If you've ever woken up to the smell of bacon cooking then you'll understand my reaction to such an event. It was a Saturday morning and I woke up to the smell of bacon and I got really excited. So excited in fact, that instead of doing my usual laying in bed for an hour and a half before I actually get up, I instantly sprang to my feet and sprinted down the hallway.

!!!!Pause story here to explain some science!!!!

When I jumped out of bed so quickly the blood that had been lazily pumping through my body had to suddenly cope with being vertical and trying to reach my brain which was made nearly impossible because of gravity. (gravity is the name of the big magnets in the center of the earth that keeps stuff from floating away, it's true look it up)

So anyway as I arrived in the kitchen I was devastated to learn that all of the bacon had been devoured and I was too late. Immediately after my mother informed me of this sad news, my vision started tunneling and I distinctly remember saying out loud, "Welp...I'm passing out."

And I did.

When I return to consciousness I was sitting in a chair in the kitchen and Floyd was knelt down in front of me, slapping my face mildly hard. The concern in his voice was very real, and very urgent.
"Son! Son, look at me! Son!" I groggily looked up at my father and was trying to tell him I was alright when he said this:

"Son! Son have you been doing any drugs? Now is the time to tell me!"

I was very disoriented, but I was able to understand the ultimatum very clearly. My first inclination was to make a joke out of it, like "Yeah I was dropping acid in my room at 7 in the morning and then I smelled bacon, sorry." But Floyd doesn't like those jokes even in situations where I haven't recently passed out in the kitchen.
I'm not saying his question wasn't justified, I just think it was funny. When I asked him about it later, all he said was "It could've been drugs" and that was it.

Something that wasn't funny at the time was my mother in the computer room talking to the 911 operator. The most disappointing part of this whole ordeal was when my mom told the 911 people never mind when I came to. That they would drive me to the hospital themselves. I would've been down for an ambulance ride. That's all there really is to the story. I passed out for literally 5 seconds which earned me a trip to the emergency room where I was informed that I got up from bed too quickly and was too dehydrated. The doctor even gave me a lesson on how to properly get up from bed so that I wouldn't pass out. To this day, I sit up for five seconds and slowly step out of bed every morning just in case. I've also stopped doing the drugs. Just kidding, I've never done drugs. Unless you count love.

*irony