Wednesday, November 4, 2009


This year for Halloween, I'm dressing as Shmooey the Wonder Boy.
Who is this Shmooey the Wonder Boy? Where might I purchase his costume? Is it in anyway an ethnic slur? These are questions I'm sure you're asking, and I'd be delighted to answer.
Shmooey the Wonder Boy is the everyman's Superhero, invented by my childhood neighbors, the Tucker boys (name changed). The Tuckers were a motley troop. Each one was skinnier than an Ethiopian pigeon, and paler than a vampire with the flu. There were at least seven boys, though experts believe there might be as many as five more lurking in the basement.
The Tuckers loved Halloween, because they each required a daily 13,000 calories (purely derived from sugar) to function. They trick-or-treated like Green Berets. No prisoners were taken. Any house that did not strictly adhere to the Halloweenic Code of Ogden (composed by Mike Tucker on the back of his math homework in 1991) was in for trouble. Eggs and toilet paper were merely the fringe of their arsenal. It is rumored that one year, a gang of Tuckers convened on Miss Edna Cragun's lawn at three in the morning and, using Bic lighters and hairspray, burned into her lawn the words "JUST TRY AND GIVE US WALNUTS NEXT YEAR."
Despite their ghoulish zeal, the Tuckers were faced with two recurring problems every Halloween: 1) they were too poor to afford real costumes, and 2) Halloween was the one night of the year their mother could sit quietly by herself in a dark room and re-think her life. This meant that neither K-Mart nor Mrs. Tucker would be providing their attire for the evening. So, each little Tucker was on his own to scrounge and rummage through storage bins, garage cabinets, church dumpsters, the neighbor's yard, and their father's closet to put together a suitable trick-or-treating costume. The result was always Shmooey the Wonder Boy. It was a hodgepodgey stew of a Super Hero. It was Superman-meets-Western Family.
Every Halloween, seven (or possibly twelve) little Shmooeys would flit about the streets of Ogden, their sticky pillow sacks swinging with caloric glee. I remember Wade Tucker bouncing in sugary merriment down Mountain Road, sporting size 12 cowboy boots, a cape made from a doormat (it said, "WIPE YOUR PAWS HERE"), a mask fashioned from bike helmet-padding, and lavender corduroys. His older, more impish brother Tyler modeled what fashion moguls would call the "Army Fatigues and Underwear Over Your Pants" look, topped by a sombrero and gigantic football pads.
I tried once to mimic their attempts, but it came off like a Hollywood remake: more flair, less creativity. I would scour the house for moon boots, eye patches, old sports jackets, and ugly ties, compiling what I thought must be quintessentially haphazard, but alas, it always felt forced and insufficiently shoddy. In the moving words of Richard Tucker, "It looks like you went to a thrift store and bought stupid things."
I was so unsystematic that I had become systematic. My Shmooey was a pristine, store-bought birthday cake, devoid of flavor and draped in multi-hue icing, and the Tucker Shmooey was a gooey, misshapen, delectable dish of brownies. I shrugged my strained and slapdash garb in exchange for a hobo costume.
But not this year. No! This year, I will make the Tuckers proud. My Shmooey will reign supreme! I will not force spontaneity, but embrace it. I will not sell out. I will wear my unfashionable Shmooey costume with pride. I want to be the best Shmooey I can possibly be!
I also might be Indiana Jones.


I’m not sure who first started this trend of tattooing personal beliefs on the back of a car.
It used to be parents of honor students or owners of terriers or fans of the Raiders would reserve their bumpers as a display-case of pride, but lately, this honored spot has become a soapbox. Maybe it’s the free advertising. Maybe there’s a sticker surplus. Most likely, it’s because the Raiders no longer have fans.
No opinion of mine has ever been changed by a bumper sticker. I can’t remember ever following a sticker on the freeway and thinking, “Gee, NO-bama. That’s pretty clever. I’m changing my vote.” Conversely, I’ve also never re-contemplated circumcision after tailing my high school English teacher’s 1979 Datsun.
But bumper stickers have nothing to do with political conversion. They secretly serve the same purpose as gray and blue uniforms. We adorn our bumpers so everyone around us will know how we think, and thus they’ll see us standing at the pole we most want to represent. If we want to be viewed as a conservative, we “Support Our Troops.” If we’d rather be seen as liberal, we seek “Change and Honesty.” Problems ensue when a liberal wants to support the troops, but doesn’t support a war, or a conservative thinks change and honesty sound like good things, but her family says that means hating babies.
We are unknowingly fighting a war, and the enemy isn’t hiding in a country that ends in Stan. Polarization’s a deadly enemy. Take the recent D.C. incident. President Obama was addressing various Suits about plans for healthcare reform, and after stating that, contrary to popular Republican opinion, his new plan would not insure illegal immigrants, a brash Senator from South Carolina by the name of Joe Wilson yelled out, “You lie!”
Now, the issue here does not concern the accuracy of Rep. Wilson’s statement, but rather the appropriateness of its delivery. To some conservatives, he was Paul Revere, flying in the face of authority to stand for the right (no pun intended). To some liberals, he was more like Stonewall Jackson. Personally, I think Rep. Wilson thought he was in the Maury Povich audience (“Is He My Baby’s Daddy?”).
And what about Obama’s recent Nobel Prize? Do you blindly hate him for receiving an award Fox News tells you he doesn’t deserve? Do you blindly love him for standing as the medallion-draped figurehead of your Democratic party? Are you somewhere in the (gasp!) middle?
Let’s remember Dr. Seuss’s tale of the North-going Zax and the South-going Zax, who meet face to face in the Prairie of Prax. Neither Zax accepts the fact that he might have to move over to let the other one by, thus halting his own progress. They stand nose-to-nose forever, neither one getting to go where he wants, while freeways and skyscrapers go up around them.
We can continue stretching ourselves until we snap. We can take our ball and go home. We can dig deeper into our political trenches, or we can crawl out and (gasp again!) compromise.
Political polarization represents a self-defeating war being fought on American soil. Be a part of the peace talks. Remember that everyone carries a different set of formational experiences. Don’t assume a religious affiliation directly correlates with a political party. Bear in mind that sometimes, there are gray areas. Take a moment to understand why your left-or-right-leaning neighbor leans left or right, instead of deciding what you think of your neighbor when you discover his leaning.
Please, don’t be a Uni-directional Zax. The All-Terrain model is much more fun.


We all thought the enemies of the world were skulking in caves in Afghanistan, or hovering over missile-launch buttons in Iran, or lurking in Internet chat rooms, waiting to steal away our children, but we were wrong. Our newest, most dastardly enemy comes from Papua New Guinea.
That's right, good people of Earth. I speak of the banana.
"But that can't be!" you cry. The banana has never done anything to harm me. On the list of insidious fruits, the banana always seemed to be at the bottom, between peaches and kumquats. Oh, sure, maybe some fruits have an evil slant, like that pretentious avocado or the androgynous tomato (we all know you're really a vegetable, you little red punk), but never the banana! Its soothing yellow hue and chalky mildness forms the base of millions of smoothies and ice cream sundaes, and the peel alone has inspired comedians worldwide. How could the banana be wicked?
Well, the answer is simple. Bananas are stealing our water. Though green in color, the banana tree is not a green solution to landscaping. According to David Ellis, who is the editor of The American Gardener, the magazine of the American Horticultural Society, the banana tree is 90 percent water (and 10 percent malevolence), and will soak up a great deal of the moisture directed towards needier, less comedic plants.
"Species such as banana, commonly used in landscaping, come from tropical regions that get a lot of rain," continues Ellis. "These plants tend to have fairly high water requirements." He goes on to encourage Americans in removing their banana trees, hibiscus, impatiens, whangdoodles, and other foreign plants that honestly could be completely fake, and we would never know.
Ellis also writes of a new trend called xeriscaping, which is generally defined as landscaping that looks like Arizona threw up. Technically, it's landscaping that reduces the need for supplemental water, but this is a hard thing for Americans to accept. Picture frolicking and frisbeeing with your children across a gorgeous, manicured lawn of yucca. Or agave. Or neatly-arranged boulders. Or lamb's ear. Or buffalo grass (we're not sure, but this sounds like the kind of grass that spears you through the soles of your shoes).
This may sound bleak to a lot of people who still value the American dream of a perfectly trimmed emerald green lawn, but xeriscaping holds a lot of merit. First of all, it would purge our country of the depraved banana tree. Also, it would help us learn to embrace our native flora (like the Moab woodyaster). And it would save water, which we reportedly all need so much of, although I'm partially convinced that it's just another fad, like antioxidants or not eating carbs or mercury-marinated fish.
Maybe there are some out there who feel that a decision to become more green will have little-to-no effect on the environment. Just a drop in a bucket, they say. We're fine as we are. Well, I'm sorry, but I think we're doing some things wrong, and a small change for all of us would equal a larger change in the end. There is nothing nerdy or obsequious about being environmentally conscious and replacing your leeching landscaping with something a bit more dry. So maybe your bottle green lawn looks a tad more rocky and brown after it's completely replaced with brown rocks. And maybe your banana tree will resent being uprooted by a lavender bush. It's ok. Bananas need to pedal their iniquity someplace else.
In other news, thousands of monkeys marched on Washington today in protest of new anti-banana legislation.


I have a recurring nightmare. In this episode, I sit down at our family computer. After it boots up and I start my important work (Battle Chess 2006), the screen goes black and a sinister, red face with angry eyebrows pops up and starts laughing monotonically. As it rears its two-dimensional head in electronic throes of evil mirth, all the appliances in my house become self-aware. And we’ve all seen enough movies to know what happens when machines become self-aware. They start to kill humans.
Why is it that when technology becomes self-aware, the first instinct is to destroy humanity? Why not do something constructive, like form a book club?
By this point, I’m battling back an electric stapler, flinging old AOL discs like throwing stars and trying to stop the phone from dialing old girlfriends and insulting them. I duel with a motorized turkey carver, and as it knocks the spatula from my hand and backs me into a wall, I wake up in a cold sweat and realize something.
I am a technophobe.
This is hard to admit. When I think of technophobes, I picture old women sobbing over the blue screen of a 1998 Dell, wanting to write a simple thank-you note to cousin Melba, cursing the day they switched over from the typewriter. I picture my uncle shaking his fist at the parental occupants of a minivan whose offspring are watching Madagascar on their Mondo Vehicular T.V. Child-Distracter.
This is not me, but I walk a slippery slope. I don’t own an IPOD. I think USB is a college. Podcasts sound like a sci-fi movie idea (“Run, Glenn! The Podcasts are hatching!”). The only thing I know about Twitter is how excited it makes sports reporters. ESPN had a 3-day party when Terrell Owens started tweeting.
My apprehension for all things technological stems from ignorance. Ignorance primarily causes fear of most things. An example of this is our friend, the clown. These days, we only see clowns in horror movies, but if we ever really took the time to get to know one, I’m sure we’d find it to be a lovely person. Until it eats our brains.
People who understand technology don’t understand why people like me have such a hard time with it. In the words of William Gibson, “The future has already arrived. It’s just not evenly distributed yet.” We technophobes want to keep up. We don’t want to be the algae churned up in the wake of progress.
The more I learn about technology, the less scared it makes me, although I’m still convinced there’s a few robots out there trying to take over the entertainment industry (i.e. Kevin Costner, Keanu Reeves). Robots are also most likely behind those awful comments on online news stories, because there’s no way something human could write things so mean or so filled with inappropriately “placed” quotation marks.
Technology is not all bad, though, and if we try hard enough, we can find multiple uses for it. For instance, earlier this week, I came down with the flu, and my body was overcome by the shivers. I was colder than an Eskimo’s ex-girlfriend, and no amount of blankets and layers of pajamas could warm me. I looked around frantically for something, anything, to stop me from shivering, and the best solution I found was our family’s archaic laptop. I laid it down on top of all the blankets, and its warmth helped me pull through. So, in a way, I have technology to thank for my health.
At least, until Kevin Costner comes after me with an electric turkey carver.


It’s Homecoming Week, everybody, which means…FOOTBALL!
The American football field hosts a weekly war, both terrible and artistic, a bloody poem in spandex and grease paint. Here, battles are won and lost, both at the ten-yard line and in line to buy bratwurst. Coaches govern teams in militaristic fashion, encouraging effort, focus, and an occasional ripped tendon. Athletes the size of Buicks sprint headlong into each other. The resultant skull-crashing and tooth-dislodging resembles a tin of mints being thrown into a high-powered fan.
Wait, you say you’re more of a soccer fan? The sight of blood and ruptured organs makes you cringe? Blasphemy! Football is as American as ABBA, Taco Bell, the Beatles, or Arnold Schwarzenegger.
The rules of football are too complicated, you say? Perhaps to the casual observer, but fear not, because from now on, we as a columnist have officially decreed Football Appreciation 101 to be a required course for university freshmen. Here’s a little preview of the course material. First, we offer a brief history of the sport and synopsis of the rules.
According to experts, football was invented somewhere between the years 1870 and 1960. The sport was originally played with a normal, round ball, but the ball’s shape was reputedly changed to its current two-pointed, maniacal state by a Rutgers University fraternity who enjoyed watching heavyset linemen chase fumbles that could spontaneously bounce backwards and lodge in their nasal cavities.
Football was sustained in its conceptual years by various males with lots of free time on weekends, and continued in relative obscurity until around the year 1998, which is the year we as a columnist started watching football (Go, Colts!).
To help further your football understanding, this new course will go into a position-by-position analysis.
The Quarterback: Usually the best-looking player (if teen movies are still accurate), quarterbacks are the trigger. They date supermodels, endorse Rolexes, and control everything that happens on offense, unless something goes wrong, in which case it was completely the fault of…
The Offensive Line: Arguably the most affable athletes in sports, offensive lineman are the true heart of the team, sacrificing both knees and years of their life to gain large amounts of weight, all to keep the quarterback in Rolex ads.
The Wide Receivers: Receivers start training early in life to be noticed. This is why they are always on television giving interviews. They develop expensive hobbies, complain, and are always about to be traded.
The Running Back: The RB’s job is to run two yards up the middle on every play, making football more boring to watch for the casual observer. Also, they are keeping a large wing of the drug industry afloat.
The Kicker: This guy’s like your 8-yr. old sister. He can do or say whatever he wants to you, but as soon as you rough him up a little or call him a name, you’re the one who gets penalized.
And on defense…
Linebackers: The linebacker always has a funny name, like Dick Butkus, or Brian Urlacher, or Ray “Nancy” Lewis, but you would never make fun of one. They are the most curious footballers, in that they are always trying to rip off the Quarterback’s helmet and examine its contents.
Defensive Line/Ends/Backs/Safeties: Also big and scary.
Special Teams: Not what you think.
And there, in a nutshell, is the first week of our Introduction to Football course. Remember to support the team this week in the Homecoming game. For help with authentic cheers and taunts, see page 38 in the course textbook (Chapter 3: “Are You Blind, Ref?...And Other Helpful Yelling Hints).


Recently, Michael Jackson died.
I don’t know if you heard about this, and I’m sorry if I’m the one to break the news. I mention his passing in passing, merely to demonstrate a point.
We all know that he wasn’t exactly a normal guy. We get that. We’ve heard all about it. And yet, while viewing the hours of memorial media coverage, I was fascinated to hear how many times people mentioned he was crazy.
Ok, fine, he slept in an oxygen chamber. His gender was, at times, indiscernible. His best friend was a python. Only a couple of his siblings had real names. He might have been an alien (further study is required). But what we really need to look at, folks, is how different from Michael Jackson we are not. The only difference between Michael Jackson and us is that he had absurd amounts of money. And he could moonwalk.
Don’t believe me? Fine. I will provide proof showing why the average person is completely bonkers.
We go to amusement parks and worry about whether or not the Macho Doom Coaster is safe, and fasten ourselves into the seat six different ways, and scream and throw up and cry, and when we’re done, we strap ourselves into two-thousand pound death machines and hurtle down the freeway at high speeds, weaving through construction barriers, all while driving inches away from other cars, while simultaneously phoning our friend about the Mets’ starting rotation, munching a bag of chocolate-covered cinnamon bears, and singing “Hey Jude” at the top of our lungs, all without even getting sweaty palms.
We spend hundreds of dollars and hours in preparation of our high school prom, and actually dance for maybe one song (usually “With Or Without You” by U2).
We continue to support the L.A. Clippers as a professional sports franchise.
We still think that local sports radio call-in shows are a good idea. (“Well, I’ll tell you, Tom, here’s why I think that Jerry Sloan should run for governor…”)
We think that no one will notice our toupee.
We spend millions of dollars on home exercise equipment, healthier cookbooks, organic ingredients, gym memberships, and Tae Bo videos, and then get in our car and drive for thirty seconds to church. Or take the elevator for two floors.
We elected (insert whichever person your favorite news channel tells you to hate here) to be (President/Vice President/Senator/American Idol). Man, that person is/was such a (Nincompoop/Tyrant/Philanderer/Marxist/George W. Bush/Child-Devouring Ogre).
We’re more scared of the swine flu than heart disease.
We support/have supported the careers of the following people: Carson Daly, Winona Ryder, Michael Bolton, Tara Reid, Kenny G, Orlando Bloom, Neil Diamond, Pauly Shore, Allen Iverson, Matthew McConaughey, Kevin Federline, Vince Carter, and Ben Affleck.
Also, Carrot Top.
Probably the biggest indicator of our societal nuttiness is how unnecessarily difficult we make the dating process. Men will pretend to like Enya. Women will lure men in by feigning complete disinterest in them.
So Michael Jackson only wore one sequined glove. Some of us wear windshield-sized sunglasses. Maybe Michael had an altered nose the size of a Hershey’s kiss. Some guys walk around their whole lives with their stomachs sucked in. Michael had a theme park in his backyard. Some people like professional wrestling.
And to anyone out there who thinks they are nothing like Michael Jackson, I say to you: “Just beat it (beat it), beat it (beat it).” (Beat It, 1982)


Like so many of you, I was driving around campus one morning from 9:20 to 10:35, trying to find a parking space with my special W pass.
Owning a W pass is like scoring backstage passes to a concert, then arriving at the concert and realizing that Burger King handed out a free backstage pass to anyone who purchased a large soda. I was driven to that expletive precipice, cursing the driver of the white 1992 Honda Civic (you know who you are) who just snaked my parking space. I had been following a woman from the Browning Center to her car to get this space. I don’t understand why the Honda felt he deserved this spot, since my license plate numbers were nearly imprinted on the back of this woman’s legs several times.
I sat in the middle of the parking aisle, wishing flaming, hot death upon the Civic’s driver, and bemoaning my oppressed existence. College students have no freedom, I grumbled. Our schedules are slave to the number of parking spots on campus. Our professors heap homework upon us, severely limiting occasions for guys like me to be rejected by women. Our employers forget what it was like to be in college. We’re already poor, but we still get ticketed by cops in Rawlins, Wyoming, for driving 84 in a 75. Honestly? On a rural Wyoming freeway, where the nearest car to me could have stopped, gotten out, danced the entire Macarena on the freeway, and then driven off before they even saw my headlights?
I was rolling in my gutter of self-pity, when I remembered my assignment to write in reflection of the anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. I screwed up my face and deliberated. What did I have to feel emancipated about? I’m about as majority as it gets around here. The last time my ancestors really needed emancipating was when they were coming through Wyoming on handcarts and amputated feet (I have to say, Wyoming, you’re not so welcoming). More recently, my ancestors only needed emancipating when they forgot their CafĂ© Rio punchcard and had to pay for what they thought would be a free burrito.
I flipped on the radio, seeking guidance. It was tuned to a political pundit who is fierce and unrelenting, his opinions shooting forth like unmerciful hellfire. Cringing, I switched the station to public radio, which is about as fierce as taffy. There was a reporter talking about some horrible explosion in some country East or West of here. Meanwhile, two journalists were still missing after publishing their new tell-all about a corrupt Slavic government. And miraculously, the victory in another country’s election went unanimously to the bully already in power.
Just ahead of me, a tan Suburban left the two parking spots it had been occupying, and I gleefully tiptoed into one of them. Feeling more appreciative, I started the tardy scurry, my mind racing along with my feet. What freedoms do I enjoy, after all?
I have the freedom to get a college education, in whichever study I choose. I drive there in my car, which is one of my family’s four vehicles. I can write whatever I want (within reason) in this column without going missing, and if I can’t write it here, I can go online and join the Blowhard Blogger Society. I can drive through Wyoming and get ticketed without being dragged to prison or beaten to a pulp.
I stopped mid-campus and smiled. I also have the freedom to leave a passive-aggressive note on the windshield of a white Honda Civic.


A friend of mine was feeling down in the dumps last semester, both from his mind-numbing job and too many general classes. Everything he did was self-serving, and he was becoming a stagnant pool of himself. One day on the way home from school, he drove gloomily past a massive grocery store parking lot, and watched as a healthy woman on her cell phone unloaded her Diet Coke into the rear of her SUV, looked back and forth from behind her windshield-sized sunglasses, then coolly shoved the shopping cart away into oblivion.
He couldn't believe it. Twenty yards away from her car was the metal cart depository. Thirty yards away was the entrance to the store. He swerved maniacally into the lot and parked noisily as the woman puttered distractedly off. His door flew open, and he seized the cart, steering it into the correct place with vigor.
He looked around and noticed at least twenty shopping carts strewn helter-skelter amongst the vehicles. This was the product of a self-centered society, and embarrassment overcame him. He got back into his car, sat, thought for a moment, then hopped back out. Deftly moving around the parking lot, he steered each cart back to its home. After about fifteen minutes, he paused next to his car and admired the uncluttered parking lot, sweating contentedly.
Pretty soon, he started noticing other missing squares in the quilt of common decency, and he stopped to patch them up. Another funny thing happened: the holes in his own self were being filled every time he stopped to make something better. One day, he walked behind a wall of bushes bordering a building on campus, and picked up every piece of trash. It took him more than one go, but between his classes, he managed to get all of it done.
No one noticed, of course, but that was part of what made it feel so good. He would swoop down onto a needy scene, like a jolly ninja, and poof away with a HI-YAH! and a flash of smoke, leaving the area clean and beautiful. And not only were these acts therapeutic, they genuinely made the world better. In fact, these little acts of service became so common, he began to plan them. Every day, he would pick out a half hour and write down "Ninja Service" in his planner.
So, Grasshopper, it is time to learn the ways of the Service Ninja. The rules are simple. First, like the true ninja, you must stay invisible. Second, any small act is great, but the bigger the service, the bigger the impact. And finally, make sure you're not doing something unwanted ("Hey! You there! Stop pruning my prize azaleas!").
Here are a few other ideas:
1. Walk into a restaurant, point out a random family, and pay for their meal anonymously.
2. Read twenty different blogs you normally wouldn't care about and leave positive comments on all of them.
3. Find a street and de-litter the whole thing.
4. Smile at each person you walk past on campus for a day.
5. Hold an international summit standardizing terms for nuclear disarmament and AIDS prevention worldwide.
6. Sit outside a busy building on campus as class gets out and hold the door open until everyone is settled.
Now, these are just a few ideas, and they may not all be within your reach, unless you are Oprah. But the thing is, some of them are. So, what are you waiting for? Ninja...attack! HI-YAH!


As an active member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I've seen situations where concepts and beliefs I hold dear were challenged, disputed, and occasionally mocked. Tragically, I've seen circumstances where the reverse was also true. A predominant mob-arousing idea in these parts, at least as far as I have noticed, is that pesky little devil, Evolution. There is a lot more room for us as participating members of our church to be open-minded about evolution.
Whoa! Whoa! Hey! Put down the pitchforks and eggs, people. Hear me out for a moment. Whether you like it or not, we live in a world of science and scientific theory. Historically, there have been many scientific ideas originally rejected by the major religious bodies that are now cherished and accepted by all (excluding my friend, who thinks the world is actually shaped like a microwave burrito).
Now, church leaders of our faith have never taken any sort of stance against science. In fact, we have a strong history of embracing it. Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles is a world-renowned heart surgeon. Elder Richard G. Scott was a nuclear engineer. Advances in varied sciences like oncology and aerodynamics and psychology have blessed the lives of millions, including members of our church. The hand of God has been evidenced in these fields. Why should fields like archaeology, anthropology, and paleontology be excluded?
Here are a few facts everyone can generally agree on. Things evolve. This is documented, and it affects many creatures. Finches on the Galapagos Islands developed different-shaped beaks depending on their favorite foods. Horses and donkeys were once the same creature, as substantiated by their odd little offspring, the mule. Two-time Academy Award-winning actress Hilary Swank started out in Karate Kid 3.
Are we descended from monkeys? I have a brother whose very existence could open my family up to investigation. Really, though, the similarities are startling. Humans and monkeys both have opposable thumbs. Both use tools. Both clap and laugh hysterically when someone hands them a toy, like a stuffed animal or a Wii. They both throw their own waste (again, my brother). And they both were in the 1996 film Dunston Checks In (starring Jason Alexander and Sam the Orangutan, but I can't remember which one played the monkey).
Strict evolutionists will proclaim from the windows of their hybrid cars that God is inexplicable and contradictory. Zealous creationists will scream Monday through Saturday that the fossil record has too many gaping holes.
Mark Twain, in his book Huckleberry Finn, sets Huck and his friend Jim on the banks of the Mississippi, looking up at the stars. They are innocently discussing the fabric of life, and who or what made this and that. Huckleberry, in his impish wisdom, says the following. "We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss whether they was made or only just happened." (Chapter 19, paragraph 5). Well, why can't the answer be both? Why can't things have been made to just happen?
Some members of our church will say that the theory of evolution attempts to explain God's ways for him, but it seems to me that harshly dismissing the theory does the same thing. Would it take a miracle for something like evolution to be true? Yes.
But aren't miracles something that we believe in?