Never Bet on Irony

Have you ever gone to a sporting event where you had no rooting interest in either team? It's hard to enjoy.

Have you ever gone to a sporting event in Las Vegas where you had no rooting interest in either team? It's very easy to enjoy.

You know, unless you like money.

"They're a lock," my friend Ryan insists, referring to the Brigham Young football team.

"You like everything Mormon," I respond skeptically. And it's true. In Ryan's mind, Eliza Dushku is the hottest woman on the planet, Chet is the coolest cast member on the current season of The Real World, and Rob Morris is an all-time great linebacker.

What's that? You've never heard of Rob Morris?

Exactly.

However, I must say that Ryan's logic is very persuasive in this instance.

"BYU is a three point underdog, right?" an eager Ryan explains. "But that doesn't make sense. Arizona has a worse record, they're inexperienced in bowl games, and they've performed much worse than BYU against common opponents. So why is Arizona favored on the betting line?"

"Why is Arizona favored?"

"Because mormons don't bet!" Ryan exclaims. "All of the Wildcat fans are coming into town placing bets on their team,and meanwhile the BYU fans are going to church. They can't bet. It's against their religion. So of course Arizona is favored on the money line."

"Brilliant!" I respond excitedly. "It would be stupid not to put fifty dollars on Brigham Young!"

"Well, I don't know about fifty..."

"It's settled then. Fifty dollars on the Cougars. I can't see how this could possibly go wrong."

It is mere hours later, as I find myself surrounded by ravenous Arizona fans celebrating a long Wildcat touchdown, that I fully realize the karma implications of placing a football bet based on religious doctrine.

While the BYU contingent in Vegas politely applauds their team, the Arizona fans go wild, easily swinging the momentum of the contest by providing a decided home field advantage. As the final seconds tick away and I realize that the team I have been rooting for all game was destined to lose, and therefore lose me fifty bucks, I look around at the excited Arizona fan base.

"I'm storming the field!" one friend in Wildcat attire yells out.

"I'm coming with you!" adds another.

Hmmm. Why the Hell not?

I move my way to the barricade separating the crowd from the field and jump down, the only fan wearing blue in a sea of red.

As Arizona players soak in the spectacle, euphoric fans converge in the center of the field, snapping pictures and hugging each other in delight.

Meanwhile, I do my best to blend in, conveniently ignoring the fact that my wallet is now significantly lighter and that I had spent the better part of three hours rooting against everyone in the mob that now surrounds me.Ryan does not join us on the field. He left midway through the fourth quarter. When I call him on the phone, he is decidedly humbled.

"Okay..." he laughs, "maybe not a total lock."

With His Teeth

Vegas keeps roping me in.

Like a Siren in The Odyssey, Sin City lures me back against my better judgment time and time again, only to punch me in the face harder than Chris Brown doing his best Ike Turner impression.

This time, I am invited to attend a college football bowl game between the University of Arizona Wildcats and the Brigham Young Cougars. A bunch of friends from high school, most of them Arizona alumni, are going to the game and, though I don't feel particularly strongly about either team, it seems like a good idea to visit some friends I don't get to see much these days.

My friends are staying at Imperial Palace, so I am instructed to meet them there. After circling the casino for about twenty minutes, I finally find oversized parking and head inside. It is night-time, and we're in Vegas, so the entire group is already drunk by the time I get there.

One good friend is already drunker than I have ever seen him. I'm talking overly-friendly-slurring-words-falling-down-all-hands-make-sure-he-doesn't-drown-in-toilet-water drunk. So drunk, in fact, that in between rounds of beer pong, he decides to bite my jacket, ripping a huge hole in the seam.

Now, when a girl rips a hole in your jacket, you've got a story you can be proud of. When one of your best guy friends does it, you hold it over his head, threatening to bring it up constantly, but knowing that it doesn't exactly put you in the most masculine light either. "Hey Buddy, remember when you ripped my jacket with your teeth?" isn't going into my wingman lines hall-of-fame.

But as awkward as it is for me, it is much worse for my drunken friend. Especially because he knows about this blog, and he knows that I am not the type to leave out important details, like the name of my friend who got so drunk that he ripped my jacket open with his teeth.

"You're going to mention this in your blog, aren't you?" he casually states the next day.

Sorry Buddy, but I have no choice.

Let's face it, on the gaydometer (it's the new gaydar), with a one being tivoing Grey's Anatomy, a five being having sex with another man, and a ten being attaining a high position in the government and fervently legislating against the rights of homosexuals, "ripping open another guy's jacket with your teeth" ranks a solid four.

It's just too strange/awkward/hilarious not to mention. But I will be leaving out my friend's name out of respect, and to avoid a strange/awkard/hilarious scandal should he ever decide to run for political office.

Plus, he paid for my buffet at Sweet Tomatoes to apologize which, come to think of it, is at least a seven.

Check back soon to learn why gambling, football, and Mormonism don't mix.

The Youtube Association Game

Disclaimer: The following blog contains adult situations and both mature and immature themes. It may not be suitable reading material for children, teenagers, or Kirk Cameron fans. The views and opinions expressed in this blog are those of Logan Mosier and are not necessarily reflective of the views of projectmeaning.com and its subsidiaries.

I have a theory that Youtube.com, despite all of its wonderful intricacies, eventually boils down to one thing: softcore porn.

"But, Logan," you may be saying right now, "Youtube is so much more than softcore porn. I can watch important documentaries, catch up on current events, and even use my creativity to create videos myself."

Sure, all of these things are possible on Youtube. And let's face it, Youtube wouldn't be the same without bad music videos, guys getting hit in the nuts, and adorable animals performing human acts. But these things aren't why Google paid massive amounts of money to purchase everyone's favorite internet video site. They bought it because we as a people are obsessed with sex, and Youtube provides it in spades.

To test this theory, I created the Youtube Association Game, or YAG (catchy, I know). YAG is very user-friendly. Simply enter any commonly known word into the Youtube search bar, choose a video on the first page of results, then keep clicking related videos until they lead you to softcore porn.

It's easier than it sounds. Simply choose the least common video each time, and eventually you'll find wildy inappropriate material. Not every video will lead you to the promised land, primarily because related videos are often grouped by the person who submitted the original video, but every subject will eventually work.

Let's put YAG to the test with some difficult subjects.

Mother Teresa.

Bottom of the 1st page, Helen Keller and Mother Theresa 1 - life after death, incarnation.

Related video, Creation of the World - In the Beginning - 3.

Related video, でちゃう！ガールズＲ・Ｑ. Which is, of course, extremely disturbing, yet oddly titillating Japanese softcore porn.

That only took two steps to get from Mother Theresa to softcore porn. Let's try another one.

Adolf Hitler.

Middle of the 1st page, Somebody Stole Hitlers Car.

Related video, Hitler Plans Burning Man. (For those keeping count, that's one degree of separation between Hitler and Burning Man.)

Related video, Burning Man 2007.

Related video, tramp girls.

Related video, two hot chicks give a nice blowjob ;-). Technically, not porn, but you can imagine the related videos. Incidentally, this video has about seven million views, in case you're wondering what tags to give that video you're about to upload.

So we've covered Hitler and Mother Teresa with little challenge. But what about something more generic. I called up my friend Ryan and asked him to tell me the most random word he could think of. His response, of course, was "Asparagus."

Asparagus.

Towards the top of the 1st page, Asparagus.

Related video, First Asparagus Emerges.

Related video, Tiffany Evans - Girls Gone Wild.

Related video, exodus girls gone wild part 1.

"It's just that easy," I tell Ryan, explaining the concept of this blog.

He pauses.

"So you're really getting close to the meaning of life, huh?"

Touche.

Existential Experiments

It's been over half a year since I started this project, and I still haven't found the meaning of life.

Not only that, but I haven't cured cancer, brokered peace in the Middle East, or even become your next American Idol. Although I was named Time Magazine's person of the year in 2006.

So I've got that going for me...which is nice.

Anyway, the point is, it's time to step it up. So I'm introducing a new addition to the projectmeaning.com family. It's called "Existential Experiments."

Essentially, I'll be examining various theories on the meaning of life via quotes from historical greats, thoughts from people I meet along my trip, or the purveying wisdom of various religions or societies throughout time. I'll take each theory and apply the scientific method (or at least my warped version of the scientific method) by putting the theory into action.

Expect various Existential Experiments throughout the coming months. I'm hoping something useful will come from them, but I at least guarantee something entertaining.

Don't Be Alarmed

I think my van and I just had an argument.

I just got finished playing basketball and headed out to the van so I could transition to Walmart for the night. As I approached the van, I clicked the keyless entry button to unlock it.

Nothing.

So I try again. Still nothing.

No big deal. It's a 1992 GMC Vandura. Asking it not to break down is like asking Mike Tyson not to get a tattoo on his face or asking David Spade not to impregnate playmates. No matter what you do, it's bound to happen sooner or later.

Resigned to the idea that the keyless entry stopped working, I grabbed the key to open the driver's side door the old fashion way. Only the second I unlocked it, the alarm went off.

I've already discussed my disdain for car alarms on this blog, but what I neglected to mention is that certain car alarms are particularly annoying. My van's alarm indisputably fits into this category. If there were a school for car alarms, my van's alarm would be the alarm that sits alone at lunch because all of the other alarms think he's too annoying, loud, and long-winded.

I've never known this about the alarm before, because everytime it goes off, I merely click the keyless entry to turn it off. This time, with the keyless entry not working, I searched fruitlessly for some way, any way, to turn it off. Nothing worked.

So for over three minutes I sat in dismay as my van made annoying sound after annoying sound. The creativity behind its obnoxiousness was astounding. About two minutes in, I started to fear it was one of those novelty alarms and would start yelling "Step the F away from the car. I repeat, back the F away from the car."

Mercifully, the alarm eventually stopped, and the keyless entry soon started working again too. Hopefully, it stays that way. When you sleep in your van, it's important to be inconspicuous, and there's nothing more conspicuous than an autograph-laden van that won't shut up.

The Batmobile Looks More Impressive on the Big Screen

As always, I have been traveling this fine country searching for the meaning of life and working rigorously to obtain as many educated, well-thought-out, and inspired life perspectives as possible. So without further ado, let me share some with you.




Okay, so maybe "working rigorously" was a bit of a stretch.

You're welcome, by the way. Any time.

I wrote a poem about the mythical "The Thing" after passing through Eastern Arizona the first time. I couldn't go twice and not get a signature from someone working there.

"Can you imagine having my name in grade school?" Jenny Bone sighed as she signed the van.

Kids can be so cruel.

Touche.











My van got towed twice in one day (more on that in a future blog). I decided it was necessary to have the tow-truck drivers sign right next to "No Breakdowns."

Irony makes me happy.





A pastor in Abilene bought me a drink at Starbucks in exchange for some good "meaning of life" conversation.

When converted to English, this loosely translates to "Thanks for watching me get drunk."

Or something like that.

I am now required by law to respond immediately to all bat signals. I took over after Christian Bale freaked out on the Terminator set.

As always,

Billy Joe Christopher Bobby McCoy

Billy Joe Christopher Bobby McCoy

Was the biggest and brightest of all Texas boys

His parents were prouder than a longhorn in heat

Cuz their physical specimen couldn’t be beat.

With an arm Smith and Wesson would surely admire

He could throw the length of the field and barely perspire

Entire teams often would choose to retire

When Big Billy McCoy’s eyes would light up with fire.

The best quarterback on the best team in town

On the practice field’s where Billy’d be found

All night and all day he’d run and he’d play

When the other kids left, Big Ol Billy’d stay.

Because that’s just the way things were in Billy’s day

Being second to anyone wasn’t okay

At least not in the way that it is now today

Billy hated football, but he never would say.

Because Billy Joe Christopher Bobby McCoy

The biggest and brightest of all Texas boys

If ever were given a true second chance,

Would gladly quit football if it meant he could dance.

Oh to dance and to dance, to live out true romance,

Billy once saw ballet; it was love at first glance

The polka, the fox trot,the cha cha, flamenco,

The charleston, waltz, pasa doble, the tango.

He knew he could not ever be properly taught

If his parents found out, if he ever was caught

He’d no longer be BJCB McCoy,

His father would swear he had no oldest boy.

When Johnny Tom Avery Michael McCoy,

Stared into the eyes of his prized oldest boy,

He did not see his son and all he could be,

All Johnny could see was a perfect QB.

So when Billy McCoy scored his final touchdown,

Bringing honor and joy to his small Texas town,

He just kept on running; never turned around

And to this day we’re told that he’s never been found.

But if you ever should escape to a land far away,

Where the field’s a stage and the game is a play,

The rumors persist and the locals they say

That a certain QB lives to dance every day.