I've lived places. I've seen things. I've lived in places where I was not surprised to see flaming tires rolling down grassy hills at family barbecues. I've lived in places where mullets prevailed and special tree stands and fishing spots were the standard topics of conversation, where parents named their children Catfish and Bubba.
I feel like I can expect those things from Idaho or Alabama. Owing to it's diversity, I think Utah should be held to a higher standard. Hence my grave disappointment twice this week: first, when I saw a tweet about Barbi Power Wheel racing— a spirited event where the competitors remove the motor, battery, drive line, and whatever else might weigh the Barbi Bopper down. After removing the dead weight, they a much larger load of dead weight— the driver. The first down the hill in one piece wins. "Wins what"? you might ask. My response is: "Please, don't ask".
The second head scratcher occurred just this morning. My daughter and I ventured from our front door in Suburbia to check the mail out by the street. Surprised, we found ourselves dodging large piles of manure in our drive way. Knowing a couple who owns two large bull mastiffs, I attributed the special surprise to them and made a mental note to mention it to them the next time I saw them. As my son and I began picking the poop up and putting it in the bag, a neighbor informed us that it was, in fact, not bull mastiff manure. She had photographic evidence of an unplanned cattle drive through our subdivision.
Honestly, Utah, you can do better.
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