Hot off the Press.

It's happened.
I've discovered the one fail proof way to make any subject completely and unavoidably boring.

Make lots n' lots of metaphors.
("I don't understand fishing metaphors!" -name that movie.)
And a simile or two here and there can't hurt either.

Oooh, ooh! You could also use an incredibly monotonous voice as you drone on and on while pausing extensively between... each... word.

I reached this understanding after a two-hour tour of the BYU Press Building, led by the world's oldest, still-breathing man. I'm not even joking.

He has one foot in the press building and one foot in the grave.

When my professor announced that we'd be taking a little field trip earlier in the week, my first response was excitement.

"My grandpa was manager of the university press for 40 years." I thought, "I'm practically print royalty by association."

So as Candy, her brother Stu and I sat down in the designated conference room, ready for the fun to begin, I didn't notice the ominous cloud of doom beginning to swirl over our heads.

At the head of the table, sat our tour guide.
Hunched over his life's masterpiece (a book that appeared eerily similar to a yearbook I designed in the 7th grade), he smiled crookedly at us.

"Welcome... to the university... press... building." he gummed, "You should be very excited to be here."

I glanced around as heads bobbed enthusiastically.

He continued, "Now... I've given... this speech... many a time. And every time... I try to explain it... differently. I get... bored too... you know.", he chuckled.

I would soon come to recognize this as the most ironic under-statement ever uttered by man throughout the history of time.

I will summarize what came next as an extreme act of compassion on my part. Thank me. Now.

Quick run down:
* Yakking.
* More yakking.
* Lots n' lots of yakking.
* Metaphors while yakking.
* Time slowing to a complete halt.
* Blank stares and incoherent drooling.
* Similes AND metaphors while yakking.
* Pleadings to the heavens that death come quickly.

Tell me exactly how paper fibers can be compared to shampooing hair? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

*sigh* I just love repetitive redundancy.

And that was only the FIRST HOUR.
But oh-ho-HO. It only got better from there.


We spent the following 60 minutes traipsing from one dirty machine to the next; the dull roar of several running presses blocking out any further droning of Satan's minion.

How did I survive, you ask?
I stared at things: crates of paper. Ceiling tiles. Vats of ink. Misspelled signs, warning employees to check their work twice.

Ah, the delicious irony.
We were fading fast.

Our only link to reality was remembering that I had heard earlier that day on Good Morning America that Justin Bieber had cut his hair. I never thought I'd say this, but it's the only thing that saved us.

When it was all over, we trudged back, single-file, to the death trap. It was the closest thing to a funeral march I've ever seen.

This was lost on one of the unrealistically happy press workers who happened to be standing in our path.

"It's a parade!", he smiled jovially.

"Except parade's are fun...", I protested melodramatically, wrapping the black coat I had been wearing around my head like a burial shroud.

We probably could have won a Guinness world record for the 'speediest grab-your-gear-and-let's-get-the-heck-outta-here maneuver', had anyone been watching.

I'm pretty sure we would have simply blown through the nearest wall had there not been an exit conveniently located some feet away.

"I've been known to have an extremely patient nature," Stu inserted breathlessly as we darted towards the car, "but that even pushed my limits."

"No kidding!?" I exploded, "Being run through the press would have been preferable to that torture."

"I'd give anything to have those two hours back.", Candy cried.

And so, I emphasize.
Do you wish to be so boring that people die at the very thought of your presence?

Just remember, PMS. (Coincidence? I think not...)

P - pauses
M- metaphors
S - similes

Use all three simultaneously and you're golden.
Use all three simultaneously in my presence and you're dead.

Volley-bawling.

What is it about volleyball that instantly attracts anyone within fifty miles that cannot, for the life of them, hit a ball?

I'm serious.
In high school, there were always a few in P.E. that were a tad challenged in regards to coordination. But that only happened because they were forced to play, right? Right?

So how is it that now we're well out of high school, the masses still hoard to take a whack at it?

Let me lay out the typical game:

Each side holds at least 28 players.
The more the merrier, they say.

Roughly 2% of these players are actually able to send the ball back over the net.

The game commences with a mighty serve from the kid with a lazy eye. Not only does the ball miss the net, it it actually propelled in a completely opposite direction, hitting a girl texting on her phone.

"No biggie, no biggie." the do-gooders smile, "Have another go."

"Two for tards!", I yell.

The cross-eyed kid tries again. Any luck?

OF COURSE NOT.
Why should my life contain any joy?

Okay. Now we're really pumped. The blood's rushin', the vibe is hyped and... hoo-SHA! The serve is beautiful! The ball streaks just over the top of the net and gracefully curves slowly to the ground, immediately in the path of at least four players.

Know what happens next?
I know what you're thinking. Someone calls it while their backup stands ready and the others watch attentively, ready to pounce should anything go amiss?

WRONG.

They all dive in opposite directions, covering whatever body part they deem to be the most valuable.

"Oh look, a pretty ball. Watch it fly through the air.", I mimic sarcastically.

"Hahaha." they laugh jovially, "I thought you had it. I though you had it. My bad..."

FRICK.

Luckily, the person with actual talent gets to serve again.
I say a silent prayer of gratitude.

Unfortunately, as you may well guess, playing a game of volleyball where each serve instantly pounds the ground on the other side of the court, knocking the opposing players sideways like bowling pins, isn't exactly gratifying. Connecting with the ball at some point is kind of an integral part of the exchange.

So, in a show of pure pity, the ball is forfeited to the neanderthals.
In slow movements, so as not to frighten them, the ball is gently tossed to their side.

As soon as it crests the net, their arms turn into giant chicken wings that they flail frantically in hopes of eventually making contact.

Those who aren't cowering under their arms, desperately try to kick at the projectile, oftentimes taking out the nearest teammate.

And I'm not even mentioning the numerous concourses who try to jauntily pop the ball into their waiting hands. Many a volleyball hour is wasted trying to punt the ball into the server's grasp.

"Maybe this time, doh. Maybe this time, DOH."

By now, I'm begging for someone to knock me out.

"Just spike it straight at my face!", I plead, fingers knotted in the net pathetically.

I'm given the stink eye. Many times over.

And so it goes. The weaklings slowly peppering out over time until only six total players remain.

"Yay!" you'd think, now we can actually start to PLAY!

Uhn, no.
Not even close.

The last few survivors have spent every last drop of empathetic energy trying not to strangle the happy-go-lucky, wannabe soccer ball player, dumb as a rock, ball kicking nut jobs that shouldn't have even been playing in the first place.

Trying to remain strong, they drag themselves from one position to the next, hopeful that their energy will return.

But it's all for naught.

Not even the strongest last.

And so I ask again. What is it about volleyball that instantly attracts anyone within a fifty mile radius that cannot hit a ball?

For the love of Pete, I just don't know what.

Seventy Times Seven.

I love the number seven. It is the perfect number.

How do I know?
Well, first off, I was born on July 7th.

That's 7/7, to dispel any confusion.

And then, if that weren't fan-freaking-tastic enough, just think of this. I... had a birthday... in 200... 7.

07/07/07. Hoo-SHA!

In case you were wondering, Wikipedia informs us that '7 is the natural number following 6 and proceeding 8'.

We are an edjukated nation, people.

Know what else?

There are seven girls in my family. (Mom included.)
Snow White had seven dwarfs.
There are seven days of the week.
Seven wonders of the ancient world.
Seven brides for seven brothers.
Sailors sail the seven seas. (Say that ten times fast.)
Seven deadly sins.
Seven days of creation.
7-Eleven.
7UP.

Freak. I even stop the microwave at seven seconds.

Don't judge.

More?

The number of servings I had of my smothered burritos with Mexican rice. Or at least wish I had.

The number of times a day I admire my new shoes.

The number of times Davey-baby and Candy laughed when they saw their handmade wedding present from yours truly.

 

The number of times 'Da Twinneh' complained that I didn't have enough pictures of her in my room. -AND- The number of times a day 'Da Twinneh' proclaims how much she hates the pictures I chose.

How many times I doubted whether the ratty DI decoration 'Da Twinneh' scavenged would amount to anything adorable. It did.

The  number of years it took to convince my roommate that SPAM is second only to bacon.

And lastly, the number of milliseconds it took to realize Gem would absolutely capital L-O-V-E this pillow.

So when my nieces woke up at 7:00AM by screaming loudly seventy times, demanding seven different breakfast cereals and asking to swim AGAIN 7,000 times, did I forgive them?

Of course. Seventy times seven.