A caustic yet humorous, sarcastic yet awesome, satirical yet special look into the mind of Tucker

A caustic yet humorous, sarcastic yet awesome, satirical yet ... special look into the mind of Tucker

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Water Polo

When I think of Water Polo, I think of this.

And when my roommate asked if I wanted to join the intramural team, I was worried about three things. My posterity, my life, and how my Utahfied legs would look in a Speedo. When I showed up, I was ... a bit surprised.

Water Polo in INNER TUBES!!! Why didn't I think of that? Keeps everyone safe from the vicious underwater combat -- which can seriously ruin your life -- keeps anyone from traveling at a speed faster than approximately .06 meters per hour (that's meters), and makes sure the people who can't swim aren't excluded from the beautiful sport of water polo.

But this isn't quite the water polo I thought of. There is a rule governing combat.

It's called, "The You are Completely Unallowed any Kind of Combat" rule.

No touching. No waving your arms in their face. No grabbing tubes. No surreptitious dunking of annoying girls, (ps it's co-ed) no pile drives to the face, no elbows the face, no knees to their groin, no bumper boats.

Yes. You heard me correctly.  Shoving their tube with your tube is against the rules.

So last night we had a game. I was watching from the side, and my roommate Josh was guarding a ridiculous woman. Every two seconds "He's touching me!!!" "He's pushing my tube!" "He said stupid!!!" "He looked at me with contempt in his eyes!!!!!!!!!"

I wished right then and there that this was real water polo. Just so I could pinch her super super super super SUPER hard under the water. Pinch her so hard she would cry for mercy.

Squeaky wheel gets the grease, but it also gets pinched.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011


If you don't remember who David is, read this post introducing you to our dear friend.

David is one of my favorite people. Why? Because he's just a weird person and quite fun to stalk watch. I see him walk through the bookstore and it is kinda a funny experience. He's one of those that almost always has his headphones in his ears, and sometimes he's drumming to his own beat. Literally.

Today as he passed, I was surprised to see him without his Bose earmuffs.

No, our friend David had better things to do.

He was holding hands with a girl. An attractive one (with all due respect, not quite as attractive as the last girl, but who am I to judge?).

Now we all know how David does around girls. So I'm just waiting and watching for him to plummet out of the sky on a grassy hut yet again. I really hope they catch it on camera.

On another creeping watching note, I would like to introduce you to some of my other favorite bookstore characters.

1. Cape Boy!!!

 He wears an olive green cape. Every day. He wears it over his backpack and looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but this my friends, is not all. He holds the cape in his hands and whips his hands back and forth to make the cape billow out behind him. It's always a good day if Cape Boy comes around.
2. Peanut Cluster man

He's just what he sounds like. He comes and buys peanut clusters. But his specialness lies in his face. Unlike most children, when his mother (back in 1820) told him if he made that face too long his face would stay like that... he kept it there too long. He looks about 80% like the guy above. He's got glasses.

3. Pectoralis Major. He really looks like this. Except white and not tatooed.

Seriously. Those things have gotta be his major.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Social Dance: Horror Stories from the East Ballroom. Episode II: Belinda.

Last time on... Social Dance: Horror Stories from the East Ballroom, I said that all the girls in the class had sweet spirits. WELLLLLLLLLLll.... they still do. But one of them is hard to see.


She has short legs and short hair, short arms, short body in general, and a real short temper.

The whole time she glares at you with her little beady eyes, mascara dripping from the heat of her laser vision. She hates me with an intense burning fiery passion. Each step we take I can feel my cells mutating from the radiation of hate emanating from her. Unmitigated dislike seeps onto the floor and leaves a slimy trail behind for the next couple to slip on.

I dread dancing with her. Maybe that's bad, but I just am not excited to place my hand upon her shoulderblade (approximately 2 feet off the floor). She tries to lead the whole time even though she can't see behind her, then when I give up and let her lead she runs into someone and almost makes them fall over.

I'm not sure if she was glaring at me for laughing/snorting or if she was mad that I let her hit them. (What was I supposed to do? You were cruising along like a train honey! I ain't spider man, I can't shoot out my webs and make the train stop.) Anyway so today I happened to get around to Belinda right at free dance time. Which means we dance with them for about 4 minutes throughout a whole song. Since we're doing foxtrot, it's usually Frank Sinatra or something similar.

I have never in my whole life wanted Frank to shut up more than I did for those four excrutiating minutes.

Belinda,  I don't know why you hate me. It's probably my rugged good looks or something, perhaps my chickmagnetness bugs you. Perhaps it's my alluring muscles.

Wouldn't be the first time.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Social Dance: Horror Stories from the East Ballroom. Episode one: Copping a Feel

Social Dance 180 has a certain reputation at BYU.

You don't go to dance if that's what you're thinking.

So I actually like to dance, and I actually enjoy being in that class.

I think I'm in the minority.

So the first couple days we learn about dance position, and how to hold the girls hand like a hangar, and how to put your palm on her shoulderblade, how she's supposed to put her hand on your deltoid, and you dance, it's not that difficult.

Looking at some of the girls I dance with, it's that difficult.

I have had girls put their right hand in mine, then proceed to place their left hand on my right pectoral. NOT ok honey. Really not ok. She claims she missed, I claim I was sexually harassed, nobody can prove anything. So we move on. A couple partners later, this other girl is squeezing the life outta my left hand. Like no more life is left, that is how hard she squozed it. Then, (to make things worse) she proceeds to grab my right bicep with reckless abandon and start squozing that too. WHOA HONEY NO SQUOZING IN THAT LOCATION. I gently and calmly corrected her horrible form, and put it back on my deltoid. She's a physiology major. You'd think she knows where the deltoid is, but no.

Don't get me wrong, there are some nice, kind girls in there, and all of them have sweet spirits.

But here's the deal, I need my space. I realize we're dancing together, I realize my muscles are nearly irresistably alluring; however, this does not mean touch them whenever you get the freakin' urge. Use some common sense, and Kailey... you are a kind person. You should not caress my face ever again. I realize I did not shave this morning, I realize you have not seen stubble in a month, no you cannot touch it, move along.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: IF YOU WANNA COP A FEEL, WARN ME SO I CAN RUN.

My name is Tucker Denton, and I approve this message.

Thursday, January 6, 2011



So I'm sitting there watching HGTV. Occasionally glaring at Farmer Joe with Popular Science, and poking AARP members when a woman in brown scrubs comes out of the door. If you've ever been to any sort of office with a door, you know the door I'm talking about. The door of destiny. So this woman comes out, and she's probably 24 to 26. Reasonably attractive. Not like I'm looking, and she calls my name. I follow her back there while my mom continues to be wrapped up in the culture clash of the Asians and the Loo Skipper (If none of this is making sense, please read "A Lot Less Wise." (Hint: SCROLL DOWN)

I go into this room with THE chair in it, and I sit down, The woman comes in behind me, introduces herself as Ashley, and takes some x-rays and reads me my rights. I pay attention, because I'm an adult now, and we get down to business. I sign some stuff. We have to call my mom away from the show to come sign some stuff (because GEEZ, I'm not paying for this...) and then Ashley walks me through the office. We traveled about the speed of a slug. Why? Because the entire regional presidency of the AARP is in front of us in the narrow hall. That's why.

So we finally get back to the room. And this room also has THE chair in it. I thought that THE implied one, but I guess that's flexible. So she sits me down. She straps some white thing to my face over my nose, and tells me to breathe. As if I could not. I nearly say "Anything for you Ashley!" sarcastically, but I don't. So I breathe. She asks me questions. Asks about Christmas, what did I get? Am I visiting home? Where am I going to school? What's your major? I could tell she was just trying to get me to keep talking so the laughing gas would work faster; however, I could also tell that she was not used to such long conversations with young men with white things attached to their noses. I gathered this information with the expertise of a spy, and realized that my body was being resistant to the laughing gas.


So i keep talking. I told her about my family. The brief description of each of my siblings (All 8 of us, including my brother in law) What my dad does for a living, and I started talking about the classes I was taking in the winter semester, and she stood up and opened the door. 2 men and a very short Mexican woman come in. One of the men, Dr. Boyse (he had a nametag) asked her why I was still awake. She shrugged. So the short lady comes up to me and asks if I'm comfortable with her doing the I.V. now. I said certainly! I wanna be a doctor anyway, can I watch? And she said "Sure!" (I liked her) And I watched her do things on my arm.

Then the doctor was getting ready to go and I was still awake. He turns to Ashley. "I think we need to try -- Well you're all done!"

The next hour is hazy. I'lll give you what I remember.

I get in the car out of a back door.

We go to Krispy Kreme.

I have gauze in my mouth.

It's hard to talk.

My mom is telling me to stop trying to talk.

Brilliant as I am, I get my phone out and start texting what I would like to say and showing it to my mom.

I say something about a slate...

I say something about Zacharias, the father of John the Baptist.

I walk into Krispy Kreme.

I get back in the car.

I return home.

Apparently somewhere in there I vigorously high-fived Ashley and wished her a gauze obstructed (but still enthusiastic) HAPPY NEW YEAR.

But I don't remember that part.