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The story of how I saved money by not going to Jamba Juice

Today was Teresa’s graduation ceremony from college. We didn’t go, of course. Who, if not obligated by family pressures, would willingly submit themselves to such torture? Though I did have an elaborate date night planned with which to celebrate, but circumstances killed it by and by. A compromise was to at least celebrate with some Jamba Juice, which Teresa loves. It reminded me the story of one of my religion professors who told how truly worthless worldly honors are. He recounted the time, after so many years of school, he finally realzed one day in the university library that there was nothing further he could do with his dissertation. He was a doctor. So he stood up, went to a pop machine, and enjoyed a can of soda. Then it was time to move on with life.

Anyway, I went to pick up some Jamba Juice, telling myself it didn’t matter that Jamba Juice was against my principles, this was for Teresa, not me. Then I passed Jamba Juice, thinking, who would pay four bucks for someone to put fruit in a blender? I went to a grocery store instead and ended up spending close to $20 on ingredients for home made smoothies and a few other treats. And that’s story of how I saved money by not going to Jamba Juice.

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There Will Be Clowns at My Funeral

I just want to take this time to record and proclaim to the world that Teresa Ann Gashler, who is none other than my wife, positively affirmed to me, in the presence of my parents as witnesses, the reality of a solemn pact she made with me on a prior occasion. This pact was an absolute promise without any loop holes, made in the best of faith, committing to fulfil the complete spirit as well as the letter of the agreement, and sealed with a handshake between husband and wife, that if die before she does, my funeral will be graced by the presence of entertaining clowns, and an official musical number of “Sabre Dance” by Aram Khachaturian.

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We Mormon men are a bunch of weenies. As I’ve gone to lunch and bonded with other men at my job, we’re so cordial and good-natured, laughing at the things the others say, as if we’re teenagers on first dates with each other, never getting to any meat. It’s pathetic. I wish we were Hell’s Angels, and we weren’t afraid to burst into roaring laughter, slapping each other on the back, and pounding the table with frothy mugs. Because surely that’s what Hell’s Angels do.

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In my humble opinion, buying clothes anywhere but D.I. is insane. For $25, I purchased three pairs of shorts, two pairs of slacks, and a shirt. One would be very hard-pressed to find a single pair of pants at most clothing stores that was sold for as low as $25. And if it is sold for so low, chances are it’s on sale. Why do the women in my life scoff whenever I say I want to shop at D.I.? Why can’t they understand the beauty? If Brigham Young were here, he would totally shop at D.I. with me, and he’d call down fire on everyone else.

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I got a real job. Like a real, real job, with an office, full time hours, a real salary, and real benefits. I’m sorry, my hippy friends. I have betrayed you. My loyalty is now to the man. Goodbye, youth. Goodbye poverty. Goodbye … love.

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Krazy Krafty!

Teresa volunteered to be the “Krafty” for a local film production. Hence the Peavlers” house, where we’re house sitting, is filled to the brim with food and dirty dishes. I’ve gotten extra time to play Mr. Mom. Today there was a big storm. The girls and I observed it from within the car. It was fun.

I’m making good progress with my first video game, Death Village 3! Stay tuned for the official release.