The Vendor Engineer’s head hung low and his shoulders were slumped as he pulled the dolly full of sugary goodness behind him.  I almost felt bad for getting ready to trouble him with something he probably didn’t care about.  No matter, Daddy needed his drink.

I inhaled and opened my mouth, my Coke question cocked and ready to fire, but I stopped.  A crate of Coke sat at the top of the Engineer’s load like a triumphant Caesar returning to Rome.  I wanted to sing, to cheer, to waive the olive branch.  “All hail the Coca-Cola!”

I stepped aside with respect as the Engineer passed by with his precious cargo.  The following minutes in my office passed by like an eternity.  I held a crisp dollar bill in my hands and bounced in my chair with anticipation.  When enough time had passed, I walked to the break room and up to the machine: my glorious harbinger of refreshment.

The smile slid off my face.  Still present was the hand scrawled label reading Dr. Pepper.  Dr. Pepper!  Where did all that Coke go?  How cruel could the vending machine dude be?  He waived salvation in my face only to yank it away like teasing a cat with string.  It was now my turn for a hanging head and slumped shoulders.  Yet with my head at this low angle I saw it: a lighthouse beacon bringing me through the fog.

The very bottom button displayed an ice cold Coke.  It was the most beautiful sight.  The machine ate my crisp dollar and rewarded me with Cola Heaven.  All was now right in the world.  Of course, the folks who liked the orange juice that once occupied that spot are screwed, but so what?

The king has returned.

Darth Vader now threatens me when I log off.  C-3PO freaks out about the Rancor when I encounter an error.  Han Solo warns me with a “transmission commencing” when I am getting a fax.

And every time I log in, Yoda asks me, “I am wondering, why are you here?”

Me too, Yoda.  Me freaking too.

PS - You will always be able to find the links to these and other pages up top or on the side.

On the night of the Opening Ceremonies, we were out at the Olive Garden, thanks to a generous contribution from the ‘Rents.  While waiting for our table a woman as old as Moses shuffled out, talking to her grandchild about how the only thing she likes about the Olympics are the Opening Exercises.  She coudn’t give a rat’s about the thrilling competition, the triumph of the human spirit, or countries coming together in the name of sports.

I personally don’t buy that crap, but that’s what the Olympics are selling.  I wasn’t feeling love for my fellow man when Phelps and Company punked France after all their trash talking.  I just jumped up and down yelling at France (yes, the entire country) to stick that in their pipe and smoke it.  Of course, when it comes to France, that’s more love than any American is usually willing to give, so hey, way to go Olympics.

Back to Mrs. Moses, she was really wanting to get home so she wouldn’t miss any of the festivities, and since it looked like it was going to take her half an hour just to get to her car, she had reason to be worried.

Now, what is my point?  I am sure my LDS readers have spotted it.  For those of you outside the Zion Curtain, at the beginning of Sunday School each week, all the primary kids meet together for a while before breaking off to their individual classes.  This time is referred to as Opening Exercises.  Mrs. Moses wanted to hurry home so she wouldn’t miss the Olympic Opening Exercises.

Now, having not watched, can anyone tell me who said the prayer?  Did they sing Jesus Wants Me For a Sunbeam?  Or the Chinese version Mao Wants Me For a Volunteer?  Just asking.

WTF?  This is a Coke machine.  Now it’s a Coke machine from which I can no longer purchase an ice cold bottle of heaven.  The Nectar of the Gods has been removed from the machine that bears its name and has been replaced with Dr. freaking Pepper.  Soda gods, why do you mock me?

Sure, my first thought was maybe the delivery guy had run out of the popular beverage.  As mind boggling as this thought was, perhaps it was true.  After all, a hand written note in the button does denote a temporary situation.  Perhaps the good doctor was only in town for a short visit.  Only now, weeks later, the hand written note remains, as does the beverage.  It mocks me, pointing and laughing from its borrowed digs.

How do I combat this?  Do I boycott the Coke machine, relying on Mountain Dew to get me through, in hopes that the delivery man will realize his mistake and evict the doctor in order to bring back the profits of days past?  Or is the delivery guy waiting for the Dr. Pepper supply to dry up before he brings the Coke back?  But if I guzzle all the Pepper, then maybe the delivery guy will think, “Wow, they really like this crap.  I’d better bring more.”

See?  It’s one of those Catch-22 things.  Only times 10.  It’s a Catch-220.

It’s not illegal to be a biker.

Is that what you think you are, dillhole?  A biker?  No, you’re a scooterer.  It’s not a real word, but you’re not a real biker.

No matter how many times you scoot down the road with what’s left of your hair blowing in the breeze,  no matter how many times you tell your bro, “Killer boots, man,”  and no matter how many times you brag, “I get 70 miles to the gallon on this hog,” you will never be a biker.

I saw a guy riding his bike this morning wearing yellow. Come on, man.  Any color but yellow.  You gotta earn that color.

What?

He’s just some dude exercising or doing his part for the environment by biking to work. This isn’t the Tour de France, dillhole. The guy can wear whatever freaking color he wants.

Her firm set mouth set below her enormous bug-eyed sunglasses let me know she was itching to get a move on despite the fact we were already speeding. I eased off the gas so I wouldn’t completely pass the garbage truck. I ended up half a car length ahead. I think the garbage truck driver read my mind because he sped up until we were nose to nose and then matched my speed.

I couldn’t help but laugh as I looked in my mirror again. The lady trapped in the Ford behind us was not happy.

But I was.

“Yeah, women would stare at him all the time. He had the mullet going, and he was hot.”

He had the mullet going? He was hot? Mullet and Hot should never appear in the same sentence unless it goes something like this, “My fugly ex chopped his mullet off because the weather was so hot.” That’s it. No exceptions.

And those women probably weren’t staring because he was hot. They were staring in awe and wonderment that someone with a mullet got a woman to go into public with him.

But who knows…

The car pulled forward and I saw that it was a Lexus.  That’s right, a Lexus with a cheap Papa Johns sign attached to the window.  I wish I had my camera for that.

So, either Papa Johns pays really well, or the car payments are so high that pizza delivery is merely there to supplement his income.