Author: John-Ross Boyce

Your education might be your last hope

I have a friend who was told by a prospective employer that she would not get the job because she is not a Mormon.   I have another friend who published an article examining her personal experience with racism in the course of her education. She got more than a few angry replies. One man accused her of being a “black supremacist.”   I have another friend, a UVU alum, who recently made a visit to our campus. He stopped by the philosophy department to pick up a book he had loaned to a professor. But it was 5:30...

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Wednesday Woes: The Trouble with Nicknames

The other day, my friend Jarom was reborn. It was amazing.   Walking through Times Square, Jarom was stopped by a random rap artist, peddling his wares among the tourists. “What’s your name, man?”   “Jarom.”   “Jared?”   “Jarom.”   “Cool,” said the rapper. “I’m gonna call you J-Smoove.”   That’s right, Smoove, with the letter “V”.   It’s all I can do to keep my jealousy from spewing out of my throat like hot magma from vengeful volcano. Getting an awesome nickname from an outside party is like being knighted by the King of the Known Universe.   I’m jealous because, unfortunately, I have not been rechristened yet. And, even more unfortunate, you cannot give yourself your own nickname. It’s the rules.   I’ve thought of so many good ones. Bad News Boyce. Billy Goat Boyce. Bad Goat Boyce. Baron Von Zoloft. DogHouse Reilly. M.C. Chewbacca. I’ve tried to trick people. I’ve tried to bait them into dubbing me something that tells the menfolk that I ain’t to be flexed with, something that would immediately inform the ladies that I will be the greatest love of their lives, even if they live to be 110 years old. I’ve cried bitter tears over the fact that Ol’ Dirty Bastard from the Wu-Tang Clan has more aliases than God. It’s unfair that some should have so many, while others...

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Your Resigned Optimism Sucks

This week Old Man Winter sucker-punched us right in the back of the head.  He sang us all off to a peaceful slumber with mendacious lullabies, promising us a lush, warm winter. And then, right as we were all floating off to the Land of Sweet Dreams, he flipped us over onto our stomachs and bombarded us with deluge of horrible sleet and snow.   And he did it right at 5 o’clock traffic too, the fiend.   Horrible weather like we had on Monday evening (1/23) makes me spew vile, hate-filled epithets at God Himself and everyone or everything that could be involved with the manufacture and distribution of snow. Especially when I have to drive on the freeway. Howard Stern? Lenny Bruce? Andrew Dice Clay? Stuff and bother. They would all swoon and faint like pinch-faced Victorian-era Protestants were they to hear the x-rated jeremiads that dance on my unclean lips.   Invariably, someone will overhear me cursing Jack Frost and Elohim and ask me “why get all bent out of shape about something you cannot control?”   Because – I can’t control it, dummy.   The time to shut up and stop complaining is when a problem is fixable. If getting rid of winter weather from now until the time this rotten planet falls to pieces were a simple matter of finding a switch and flipping...

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Wednesday Woes: Movie trivia time

Has this ever happened to you? You’re at party, really hitting it off with a fine specimen of whatever gender(s) you’re into. You two are comparing notes on personal dreams, favorite bands, influential bands, politics, religion, the works and all signs are pointing toward get married and commence the aggressive manufacture of children. I mean, Yente the Matchmaker couldn’t have found you a better man/woman/she-male/he-lady/entity in a giant animal costume. All you have to do is nail down this beautiful creature’s tastes in cinema and you’ll have all the confirmation you need that this who you’re going to spend the rest of you life with. So you start talking movies. Turns out you both share a deep love of the Coen Brothers. Turns out you both favor “Raising Arizona” out of all of Joel & Ethan’s myriad works. Turns out you both are particularly fond of the scene where Nic Cage attempts to rob a convenience store of it’s cash and one package of Huggies diapers, triggering a hilarious multi-car chase through a sleepy neighborhood in Tempe.   You both burst into peels of laughter. You’re gonna get a phone number. It’s official.   And then, this third wheel, this complete dork shows up and harshes your game.   You know who I’m talking about. He’s the second cousin of the guy who’s throwing this party. Nobody’s talked to...

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