Let me tell you a tale. A tragicomic saga. A cautionary fable for anyone brave (or foolish) enough to list a nearly new Schwinn bike trailer on Facebook Marketplace.
The trailer? Pristine. Lightly used. A top-tier chariot of childhood joy that once promised adventure and fresh air. Retail price: a minor heart attack. Listing price? A gentle sigh. Practically giving it away cheaper than dinner for two at Nando’s. It even comes with a flag, for heaven’s sake. It’s aerodynamic. It’s practical. It’s… unsellable.
Scene 1: The Inbox of Broken Dreams
As soon as the post goes live, the messages start trickling in.
👤 “Is this available?”
Yes. Yes, it is. That’s why it’s listed. Why do you ask?
👤 “What’s your lowest?”
Mate, the price is already lower than my self-esteem after sitting through six series of “Love Island.” But sure, let’s play limbo. How low can we go?
👤 “Can you deliver to Stoke-on-Trent?”
Sure, if you pay for petrol, snacks, my time, emotional labor, and a session of therapy afterward.
👤 “I’ll come at 5.”
They do not come at 5.
They do not come at 6.
They do not come at all.
You tidy the garage. You miss dinner. You question humanity. And the trailer? Still sitting there, looking smug, like it’s part of a sociological experiment on seller resilience.
Scene 2: The Bargain Brigade
After five ghostings and one bloke who tried to trade it for a set of golf clubs “missing only 3 irons,” you’re now just shouting into the void.
You rewrite the listing:
“Still for sale. No, I won’t take £10. No, I don’t want to swap it for an aquarium or a budgie cage. No, I will not hold it for you until next month’s payday.”
You start wondering if maybe you should just donate it to science. Or strap it to a passing Uber and hope for the best.
Scene 3: The Bargaining Monologue
You imagine future you, standing by the curb with a cardboard sign:
“Free trailer. Comes with a bottle of red wine and a warm sense of betrayal.”
People will stop. They’ll ask if it comes with instructions. You’ll say yes, but mostly emotional ones.
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And yet… it’s still for sale.
Probably.
It might also be a time capsule of disappointment by now.
If you or anyone you know is in the market for a lightly used Schwinn trailer (with more emotional baggage than mechanical wear), drop a message. Just… don’t ask if it’s available.
A Monty Python–esque tragedy featuring delusion, detergent, and a very judgmental cat named Gertrude
Narrator (spoken with a noble accent over panpipes and a burp):
In a neighborhood best known for its artisanal hummus and broken dreams, there lived a man called Elijah—a tall, bewildered figure whose confidence was unmatched in its complete lack of foundation.
Elijah was the sort of man who described himself as “neurodivergent and vibing” on dating apps, but mostly just vibed alone with his cat, Gertrude, a ginger tabby who understood the meaning of the universe and loathed every minute of it.
Scene One: Suds of Destiny
Elijah stood in his cramped kitchen wearing nothing but socks and misguided ambition. He stared lovingly at his MacBook Pro, a faithful device that had endured many things: conspiracy theories, rejected blog drafts, and at least one mushroom-fueled attempt to write a screenplay about a sentient lentil.
Elijah (beaming):
“Time for your spiritual cleanse, my sweet digital child.”
He turned the faucet like a priest anointing a heretic and lowered the laptop into the foamy sink water as if it were a Viking corpse.
Gertrude, perched on the counter like a furry gargoyle, tilted her head in what could only be described as feline contempt.
Narrator:
Elijah’s belief that “all modern devices are waterproof” came from a Reddit post he skimmed while high and eating Nutella with a spatula.
This was also the same night he declared, through a mouthful of granola, that “reality is just God’s badly rendered simulation.”
Scene Two: Mushrooms, Madness, and MacBooks
As the laptop began to emit the soft crackle of dying circuits, Elijah inhaled deeply and settled cross-legged on the floor.
He had taken exactly one and a half mushrooms that morning, convinced it made him focus better, despite having spent two hours trying to “connect spiritually” with a coat rack.
Elijah (gazing into the abyss):
“Gertrude… have you ever wondered if we’re just data packets in a cosmic hard drive?”
Gertrude blinked once.
Her eyes said: “You absolute lemon.”
Narrator (delighted):
This was not the first time Elijah had misunderstood the world. He once tried to network at a funeral. He thought NFTs were a type of protein. He believed “social cues” were some sort of cryptocurrency.
And now, he had baptized his MacBook. With Dawn dish soap. And hope.
Final Scene: Consequences and Cat Disdain
The sink hissed. The screen flickered like a dying firefly. Elijah watched in silence.
Elijah (softly):
“It’s not… waterproof.”
Gertrude leapt down with the grace of an animal who knew this chapter had ended. She walked slowly out of the kitchen, tail held high in silent judgment.
Narrator (with whimsical finality):
And so ends the tale of Elijah—philosopher of the confused, prophet of the misinformed, and man who washed his laptop like it was a potato.
His journey for meaning would continue.
But his MacBook… would not.
And Gertrude?
She would tell the others.
FIN.
(A film by No One Asked Films. Based on absolutely true events. Probably
If you want to understand BMX, you can’t just look at the tricks. You’ve got to look at the story—the culture, the steel, the scars, and the steady pulse of rebellion. BMX isn’t just a sport; it’s a timeline of dirt, chrome, and defiance that’s always been about pushing the limits of what’s possible on two wheels.
Let’s ride through the defining eras of BMX, one pedal stroke at a time.
1. The Birth Era (Early to Mid 1970s): From Stingrays to Starting Gates
It started with imitation. Kids in Southern California, inspired by motocross legends like Evel Knievel, grabbed their Schwinn Stingrays and took to the dirt. There were no rules, no real races—just skids, slides, and scraped knees.
But it didn’t stay underground for long. By the mid-’70s, BMX racing became organized, with official tracks, local leagues, and early innovators like SE Racing and Mongoose designing bikes built for speed and air. These were the Wild West years—pure, dusty, and wide open.
2. The Freestyle Explosion (Mid 1980s): Tricks, Mags, and Neon Dreams
As the racing scene matured, a new wave of creativity took over. Freestyle BMX was born in empty pools, flat schoolyards, and parking lots turned playgrounds. Riders like Bob Haro and Eddie Fiola began doing the unthinkable—riding not against time, but against gravity.
Equipment changed just as fast. Frames were redesigned for spinning and balance. Skyway mags replaced spokes. The invention of the rotor (gyro) meant you could spin the bars endlessly without tangling your brake cables. Suddenly, BMX wasn’t just a race—it was an art form.
3. The Street & Dirt Renaissance (Early to Mid 1990s): Back to the Underground
As the mainstream appetite for freestyle faded, BMX returned to its roots: dirt trails and back-alley stair sets. The early ’90s were a renaissance, not of gloss, but of grit. Taj Mihelich rode like poetry on trails. Mat Hoffman risked his life chasing 20 feet of air on homemade vert ramps.
Street riding exploded, often literally—bike frames snapped under stair gaps, handrails were conquered, and DIY became the law of the land. Equipment got tougher. Wheels went 48-spoke. Pegs were on every corner. BMX was raw again, and riders liked it that way.
4. The X Games Era (Late 1990s–Mid 2000s): Fame, Fortune, and Triple Whips
Then came the bright lights. With the rise of ESPN’s X Games, BMX landed squarely in the spotlight. Dave Mirra became a household name. Ryan Nyquist changed the way we looked at handlebars. Tricks got bigger, faster, and more dangerous. Suddenly, there were million-dollar sponsorships, TV deals, and action figures.
Equipment responded: lighter frames, sealed bearings, and integrated headsets became standard. It was the golden era of polished ramps and mega purses—but it came with the pressure of performance. For some, the fame was a boost. For others, it was a burnout.
5. Street Core and Tech Era (Mid 2000s–2015): Manuals, Media, and Minimalism
As the TV cameras turned elsewhere, BMX street riding took over again—only now, it was more technical than ever. Freecoasters let riders roll backwards without pedaling. Plastic pegs and pedals made grinds smoother. Instagram and YouTube gave local heroes global reach.
Video parts became the new competition. The tricks were more refined: bar-to-manual-to-whip. Creativity ruled over contests. Frames got shorter. Gear ratios shrank. The culture hardened—less flash, more substance. BMX wasn’t dead. It was just dialed in.
6. Olympic Era (2016–Present): Gold Medals and Global Respect
In 2021, BMX Freestyle made its Olympic debut in Tokyo. What began as a backyard rebellion now had athletes on podiums, backed by national teams and televised across the globe.
This era is defined by precision. Park riders are throwing triple flips and 720 whips with gymnastic control. Equipment is purpose-built—super light, ultra responsive, fine-tuned for every discipline. Racing too has gone next level, with carbon fiber frames and motocross-style tracks.
But even now, at the pinnacle of mainstream acceptance, BMX has kept its soul. Behind every medal is a rider who once learned to fall on concrete and dirt.
The Ride Continues
BMX has never stood still. It’s evolved, adapted, rebelled, and returned to its roots more than once. What started with a bunch of kids playing in the dirt is now a global force with decades of history welded into every frame.
And if the past tells us anything—it’s that the next era of BMX is just one rider away from changing everything again.
Would you like this formatted for Medium, Substack, or a BMX brand blog layout next?
BMX Freestyle was born in driveways, empty pools, and backyard ramps — not in conference rooms or Olympic committee meetings.
It was rider-led, DIY, and fearlessly creative — a culture shaped by people like Mat Hoffman and Dennis McCoy, who weren’t just athletes, but architects of an entire movement. They didn’t just ride. They built contests, companies, and communities when no one else would.
So when the UCI (Union Cycliste Internationale) swooped in and absorbed the BMX Freestyle World Championships without so much as a nod to the people who created the very foundation of the sport — it felt like a hostile takeover. And in many ways, that’s exactly what it was.
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🚨 The UCI Didn’t Build This. They Just Claimed It.
For years, Hoffman’s International BMX Freestyle Federation (IBMXFF) ran the Freestyle Worlds. It was grassroots. It was respected. It was real.
Then, as Olympic inclusion loomed, the UCI — cycling’s global governing body — stepped in. Backed by the IOC, they declared themselves the new authority on BMX Freestyle. They didn’t collaborate with the IBMXFF. They didn’t acknowledge the decades of work from within the community.
They just took over.
And many riders, dreaming of Olympic medals and national funding, went along quietly.
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🧊 What the UCI Got Wrong — and Why BMX is Paying for It
The UCI structure does nothing to support grassroots BMX.
• There are no real pipelines for local riders to reach elite competition.
• There is no reinvestment into community programs, indoor parks, or small events that actually grow talent.
• There is no representation from riders who actually built and still embody the freestyle culture.
Instead, it’s a top-heavy system that expects national federations to fund riders and programs — but most don’t. Many Olympic hopefuls are self-funded, working side gigs, crowdfunding travel to events, or relying on family just to stay in the game.
Even the USA BMX Freestyle series, created to bridge grassroots with elite pathways, has seen shockingly poor attendance. Why? Because the community feels disconnected. These contests often lack vibe, culture, and identity — the very things that made BMX special in the first place.
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💀 The Free Agent Team Collapse — A Harsh Warning Sign
The collapse of the Free Agent BMX team, once a prominent name in freestyle and race circles, underscores the larger crisis. Sponsorship is drying up.
Riders who compete in UCI-sanctioned events — including FISE World Cups — are often struggling to stay funded. Visibility in these events isn’t translating into brand deals or long-term support. And many brands are walking away entirely, citing lack of ROI, limited cultural impact, or just not recognizing the audience anymore.
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🗣️ So Why Didn’t Anyone Take a Stand?
When the UCI took over, some riders — like Mat Hoffman and Dennis McCoy — spoke up. They sounded the alarm. But the resistance never fully materialized.
Why?
Because no one wanted to give up their shot at the Olympics.
And now, we’re seeing the cost of that silence.
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💡 What Needs to Happen Next
BMX Freestyle doesn’t need another bureaucracy. It needs a revival of its grassroots roots, and a structure that supports long-term careers, not just fleeting Olympic moments.
Here’s how:
• Rebuild rider-led organizations to advocate for sustainable funding and cultural relevance.
• Create independent events that blend pro-level riding with the energy of the scene — music, art, and community.
• Pressure national federations and the UCI to actually invest in local infrastructure, not just elite athletes.
• Brands and sponsors: stop waiting for trickle-down marketing from the UCI. Go where the culture actually lives.
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✊ BMX is Still Ours — If We Want It
The UCI may have taken control of the titles, but they’ll never understand the culture. That’s not what they do.
It’s what we do.
So if BMX is going to survive — and thrive — it’ll be because the riders take it back.
Back to the DIY jams. Back to parking lots. Back to homemade ramps and communities that care more about style than medals.
Because in BMX, the soul always mattered more than the sanctioning body.
For years, Fernando Rodriguez was one of those customers who quietly made our work feel worthwhile.
He never raised his voice. Never rushed. Always polite, grateful, even when we helped track down a part or navigate a warranty. He wasn’t just a name on a screen. He was part of the rhythm of our days.
Then one day, Fernando stopped calling in.
We thought he’d maybe changed jobs or gone on holiday. But the silence stretched, and eventually, word came through, not from a coworker or family member, but through a chilling headline in one of the refrigeration trade publications.
Fernando had died.
He’d been decapitated while working on an Electrolux hermetic compressor.
I can’t describe the feeling in our department when we read that. Just shock. Then sadness. Then a rising ache in the stomach when we read more details.
There had been an inquiry. The conclusion: his apprentice had mistakenly opened a nitrogen cylinder fully into the compressor. The regulator was wide open. The compressor, already under strain, couldn’t take the sudden surge of pressure. The weld failed catastrophically, and the top of the compressor was launched straight at Fernando’s head.
It was a horrific accident. I can’t begin to fathom the trauma for that apprentice, who likely thought he’d made a simple pressure test, never realizing the chain reaction that would follow.
But that’s not the whole story.
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The Untold Part of the Story
What wasn’t included in the coroner’s report or the inquiry summary was what had been happening behind the scenes in the months leading up to Fernando’s death, something we at the tech support desk had been dealing with daily.
There had been a troubling spike in compressor failures in the field, specifically, weld failures in compressors supplied to Foster Refrigeration. We were handling an unusually high volume of warranty calls for systems losing gas shortly after installation.
This wasn’t normal.
Other customers using the same compressors weren’t seeing these failures. And R134a, a gas with tiny molecules was escaping these systems through welds that should’ve been sealed. As any seasoned engineer will tell you, R134a is to refrigeration leaks what Vinnie Jones was to football: aggressive, unforgiving, and find the parts others can’t reach..
So we went to Foster.
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A Hole in the Line
Gary and I visited the factory. What we discovered was the kind of manufacturing quirk you only find by showing up and asking questions.
On the line, systems were being pressure-tested with nitrogen before shipment. But during the period that matched the failing batch numbers, the regular technician was on holiday.
His stand-in? Well-intentioned, but inexperienced.
Instead of testing systems around 300 psi (the typical range), he was testing them at 1600 psi—five times the normal level. It’s not that the systems burst there and then. Nitrogen molecules are large, and they held the pressure. Everything seemed fine.
But under the stress of that over-pressurization, microfractures formed in welds that were never designed to endure that kind of punishment. Once these systems were charged with R134a and in the field, the leaks began. Doomed from the start.
We documented this and flagged it internally. But the tragic irony is: nobody investigating Fernando’s death ever asked us. They never traced the root cause beyond the apprentice’s hands.
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A Loss Beyond Words
What happened on that day wasn’t just a one-off accident.
It was the final link in a chain forged across factories, processes, and missed communication. It was a tragedy of pressure, mechanical and human, and the cost was the life of a good man.
Fernando wasn’t just a customer. He was someone we knew. Someone we respected. And the apprentice, he’s not a villain. He’s a kid who made a mistake in a system that failed to protect him from making it.
There are lessons here about technical standards, about documentation, about digging deeper during investigations. But there’s also something more personal.
We build systems. But we also build trust. And when trust breaks—whether in a weld, a process, or a conversation, the cost can be more than we ever imagined.
Ah, Utah, where the mountains are high, the fry sauce flows freely, and the parking lots at LDS meetinghouses are absolutely enormous.
If you’ve ever walked past one of these sprawling asphalt deserts on a weekday, not a soul in sight, you may have wondered: why do we need so much parking when half the neighborhood could literally walk here in under five minutes?
Well, dear reader, pull up a folding chair (there’s always plenty at the church), because there’s a theory. And it might just explain why your property tax bill keeps going up.
The Secret Life of Church Parking Lots
What if those endless rows of empty spaces aren’t just for cars? What if they’re actually a clever way for the Church to hold on to prime land, tax-free, while you and your neighbors foot the bill?
It works like this:
The Church buys a large parcel of land, often in a growing suburb.
It builds a modest meetinghouse… and a parking lot big enough to host the Utah State Fair.
The parking lot sits largely unused, except for Sunday mornings and the occasional youth dance.
Because it’s church property, it’s tax-exempt.
Meanwhile, the surrounding land values rise, but so do your property taxes, because someone has to pay for the schools, roads, and services the church land isn’t contributing toward.
More Asphalt, More Problems
In other words, you’re helping subsidize half-empty parking lots that make it harder for families to afford homes in their own neighborhoods.
All this while we’re constantly told that Utah needs:
More affordable housing
Less sprawl
Stronger communities
And better walkability (remember, a “15-minute city” isn’t a plot by the Illuminati — it’s actually nice).
But instead, we get 15 acres of sacred asphalt, perfect for teaching the deacons how to drive, not so great for keeping property taxes low.
A Modest Proposal
Perhaps it’s time for the Church to consider:
Smaller parking lots (people can walk, or even carpool, heaven forbid!)
Shared use agreements with nearby businesses or city lots
Using some of that land for parks, affordable housing, or community spaces
Or hey, just lease it to the local food truck festival on weekdays and let us at least get a taco out of the deal.
Final Amen
Next time you’re cutting that check to the county tax office, take a moment to thank the sprawling, empty church parking lot down the street. It’s not just holding space for your car, it’s helping raise your taxes, one sun-baked stripe at a time.
And as you walk past it on your way to church (because you still can’t afford a second car), just remember: that lot is praying for you. And your wallet.
🚗 F.A.Q.: Frequently Asphalted Questions — Church Parking Lots Edition
Q: Why is the parking lot so enormous when I can walk to church? A: Because the Church plans for the Millennium… and also a youth dance with 400 parents picking up kids at once.
Q: Why is there no shade? A: Utah parking lots are designed to double as solar ovens for your car. You’re welcome.
Q: Who pays the property tax on all this land? A: Not the Church! But your property tax bill loves the Church’s parking lot.
Q: Can we park RVs here during General Conference? A: Ask your local bishop. And bring donuts.
Q: Couldn’t this land be used for affordable housing? A: Shhh. Asphalt doesn’t argue
Not the parting of the Red Sea. Not a decent parking spot at Trader Joe’s. No—we found a functioning, family-friendly hot spring in America that hasn’t been strip-mined by private equity.
Nestled in the gentle arms of Honeyville, Utah (just far enough from any place influencers care about), Crystal Hot Springs is a glorious little geothermal oasis that feels like it’s one board meeting away from being accidentally turned into a crypto wellness ranch.
The Last $18 Day Pass in America
We paid $18 each for actual access to minerals and water. Try doing that in Park City and they’ll spit LaCroix in your face and slap you with a $1,200 spa tax.
But don’t get too comfortable. BlackRock is definitely watching. You can practically hear a distant boardroom whispering, “What if we called it Crystal Springs Reserve™ and added an AI firepit experience?”
So go now. While you can still afford to bring your kids and a snack.
Dining Options Include… Hope
Now, you won’t find avocado toast, yak butter matcha, or sustainable lobster foam here. The concessions stand offers an unapologetic throwback to 1983: potato chips, maybe a candy bar, and bottled soda that’s so sugary it could file your taxes for you.
Which is to say: bring a cooler.
Or a potato cannon and try your luck at cooking spuds poolside—same effect, more bonding.
Frankly, there’s a huge opportunity here. If anyone wants to start a pop-up taco truck with moderate morals and good tortillas, you will be hailed as the god of the hot springs.
About Those Recliners
Yes, there are reclining chairs… in theory. You may see one or two in the distance, but only if you catch the sunrise and are blessed by the recliner gods.
Rumor has it they were all claimed in 1997 by a group of hyper-organized Germans who arrived at 6:03 a.m. and laid down their towels. They’ve since returned annually to defend their turf using precision, politeness, and Teutonic strength.
The Verdict?
This place rules.
The water smells like ambition and ancient minerals. The slides are fast enough to regret your decisions but not enough to file a waiver. The vibe is weirdly honest.
In a world where everything is being turned into a $750 “immersive healing lodge experience,” Crystal Hot Springs is just out here being… a hot spring.
Soak in it before it’s rebranded as “ThermaFi™” and you’re asked to scan your retina to enter the healing dome.
We’ll be back. Probably with folding chairs, trail mix, and a thousand-yard stare that says: “No BlackRock. Not today.”
Tips Before You Go:
Bring snacks. Real ones.
Towels. Extras. Maybe barbed wire for your seating zone.
Expect joy, mineral clarity, and a possible German encounter.
Bask in the pre-investment serenity while you can.
Ah, the annual City Grand Parade: that glorious midsummer collision of civic boosterism, peppermint-stick shrapnel, and tactical lawn-chair warfare. It’s the one day a year when downtown transforms into a living “Buy Local OR ELSE” banner—except the banner is actually twelve marching bands, a forklift full of chamber-of-commerce coupons, and the fire department hurling Tootsie Rolls with the accuracy of a medieval trebuchet.
The Stakes Couldn’t Be Lower
Parents rise at dawn, painting the curb with picnic blankets like colonial powers planting flags on yet-to-be-discovered concrete. By 8 a.m. the sidewalk resembles a game of Risk played with camping chairs and passive-aggressive side-eye. Everyone’s humming “We’re All In This Together,” which is parade code for “Touch my folding wagon and meet my insurance deductible.”
Meet Today’s Parade Archetypes
Parade Persona
Defining Quote
Key Weapon
Otter-Pop Assassin (Age 6)
Mine!
Sticky palms, zero remorse
Second-Amendment Starter Pack Dad
Freedom ain’t free neither are these Skittles!
Hat with the 47th state flag + 1,000-yard stare
Accidental Step-Counter Mom
I’m at 16,782 steps and it’s not even noon.
Smartwatch that barks encouragement
Local Politician on a Float
Remember me next November, kids and floss!
Confetti with QR codes
Candy Economics 101
Why is Junior being trampled for sweets destined to fossilize in a kitchen drawer? Because every Jolly Rancher is really a sugar-coated business card. Hometown Bank? Lemon drops. Council member Trying-to-Seem-Fun? Mini frisbees. The new dentist on Main? Bubble gum, because vertical integration is beautiful.
By parade’s end, children stagger home clutching a sack that would make a Halloween pumpkin blush. The parents, meanwhile, tote invisible merchandise: brand recall, subconscious jingles, and a 40-percent chance they’ll buy a hot-tub because “the showroom guy waved from Float #17.”
The Great Cultural Tug-of-War
Somewhere between the marching scouts and the high-school drumline lurks a banner that says “City Pride.” The clergy contingent blinks twice, the arts council cheers, and everyone politely pretends we’re all talking about the same thing. Behold, unity through mutually assured discomfort—just like the Founders envisioned!
Law & Order: Street-Blanket Unit
When boundary lines blur (“Your kid crossed my tarp, ma’am!”), our beloved Police Chief pedals up on his parade-issue mountain bike, megaphone poised. One stern glare and the sidewalk Geneva Convention is reinstated. Remember: in Small-Town USA, jaywalking is frowned upon, but the emotional trauma of lost AirHeads is grounds for a municipal inquest.
Post-Parade Amnesia
The final float sputters past, children vanish into minivans, and Main Street looks like Willy Wonka lost a contact lens. Yet beneath the Pixy-Stix dust lies a brilliant scheme: for every tantrum over a runaway Smartie, a marketing seed is planted.
Next spring Little Ava “just remembers” that the car dealership gave her a plush key-chain.
Dad suddenly feels “loyal” to the hardware store that lobbed him a root-beer barrel.
Mom’s dentist choice? Decided the moment Dr. Molaro’s float performed “Floss Like a Boss” choreography.
And so the carousel spins: consumerism disguised as civic cheer, sugar highs reborn as shopping highs.
The Moral (If There Is One)
Who’s fooling whom in this candy-grab kabuki? Not the kids—they never planned on eating those butterscotches. The true targets are the grown-ups, hypnotized by Nana’s Fudge Boutique coupons dangling from parade princess tiaras.
So next year, when you’re 5 a.m. curb-camping for “family memories,” remember: the Grand Parade isn’t a celebration of community—it’s a live-action infomercial with marching music and optional sunburn. Enjoy the show, guard your gummy bears, and for the love of civic harmony, don’t cross the line of tape unless you’re prepared for a sermon on constitutional candy rights.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have five pounds of still-sealed taffy to donate to science—or possibly asphalt repair.
A special thank you to our sponsor: DeathJuice.com – The only energy drink banned in three states and a proud supporter of light-hearted chaos since 2022.
Ah, yes. The Grand Parade. A celebration of civic pride, high school marching bands, and candy projectiles launched from tractors. But if you’ve lived here longer than a single calendar year, you know the true tradition doesn’t begin with floats or confetti.
It begins with lawn chairs.
Folded. Faded. Sometimes chained together with bike locks or wrapped in prayer flags.
Staked out days — even weeks — in advance by residents who believe street curbs are inherited, not shared. Who glare at strangers like they’re about to gentrify their coolers.
Enter: Mischief Night.
A grassroots community prank initiative — think of it as a neighborhood Secret Santa, but instead of gifts, we gently relocate your plastic Adirondacks to the other side of the street. Or maybe two blocks down. Or into an unclaimed cul-de-sac.
But like any great cultural moment, Mischief Night must be governed by a strict code of ethics. After all, this is about unity… and a little chaos.
So here it is, your official:
📜
The 22 Sacred Rules of Mischief Night
(A Totally Unauthorized Community Tradition)
Nothing begins before 10:00 PM. Let the suburbanites fall asleep clutching their ring doorbells first.
Nothing happens after 5:00 AM. If you’re still out after sunrise, you’re not mischievous — you’re just a loitering adult.
You may move a chair, but you must respect the chair. No broken legs. No flipped seating. No glitter bombs. Unless it’s really tasteful glitter.
Every relocated item must still have a good view of the parade. We’re pranksters, not monsters.
You may never, under any circumstances, touch a grandma’s spot. If there’s a handmade quilt or Werther’s wrappers in the cupholder, back away.
What happens on Mischief Night stays on Mischief Night. No snitching. No tagging people on Facebook. Honor among jesters.
Cone Displacement is permitted. But use it to create art. Swirls. Towers. Interpretive traffic symbols.
If you find an abandoned recliner, it becomes the Throne of Mischief. You must sit upon it, snap a photo, and leave it slightly more majestic than before.
No messing with mobility devices or anything involving accessibility. This is for fun — not cruelty.
Leave a single lawn gnome wherever you go. Let them wonder how Harold the Gnome got from Elm Street to Main.
Two chair limit per prank. We’re shuffling, not evacuating.
You must play parade music while pranking. Sousa marches or Beyoncé’s “Run the World (Girls)” are both acceptable.
Leave a calling card. A mysterious note that says “You’ve been joyfully inconvenienced – Happy Mischief Night! 🪑✨”
If you move someone’s spot and they actually end up liking it more, you earn a point. First to ten points gets to judge the next year’s Mischief Awards.
If you see another Mischief Crew, high-five and move along. No turf wars. This isn’t street racing. This is suburban diplomacy.
If you get caught in the act, you must say: “I’m just helping chairs find themselves.” Then wink and slowly disappear behind a hydrangea bush.
No plastic pumpkins may be stolen. They are spiritually guarded by neighborhood watch captains.
If someone has staked a flag in their spot, you may rotate it upside down in protest. Not removed. Not defaced. Just…symbolically distressed.
Respect the silent witness of lawn sprinklers. If they go off while you’re mid-prank, you accept your wet fate with dignity.
You must return one mislocated chair to its original home before the parade begins. A peace offering. A gesture of good faith. A single act of closure.
Any prank must be reversible. Chairs are not to be zip-tied to lamp posts, suspended from trees, or sunk in fountains.
If you drink DeathJuice™ while pranking, hydrate with water too. DeathJuice is potent. One can may cause interpretive dance.
So as you prepare your walkie-talkies and glow-in-the-dark sneakers, remember: Mischief Night isn’t about chaos — it’s about gentle protest, ridiculous creativity, and reminding our beloved neighbors that maybe, just maybe, the sidewalk belongs to everyone.
Now go forth.
Gently.
With honor.
And just the right amount of unhinged suburban rebellion.
#MischiefNight2025 | Sponsored by DeathJuice.com — Drink Loud, Live Louder
Let me know if you want a printable version to post around town or a digital badge for certified Mischief Agents.
Ah, Springville Art City Days. A glorious celebration of Utah small-town pride, kettle corn, and inflatable obstacle courses that look like lawsuits waiting to happen. For one shimmering week, the streets overflow with joy, face paint, and people with too much backstory for a five-minute conversation.
It’s charming. It’s wholesome.
It’s everything a town like ours could hope for.
Except for one thing.
That dark, distorted corner of the festivities where hope goes to scream into a cheap mic and feedback echoes for miles. Yes, I’m talking about…
🎤
The Battle of the Bands.
An event that promises music and delivers trauma. Every. Single. Year. And every single year the dude in a wheelchair can’t play the double bass because they forgot to build a side walk to the band stand.
🎸Let’s Meet the Lineup
1. The Classic Rock Revivalists (With Boundary Issues)
Fronted by a man named Rick or Chuck or Mick, wearing a shirt open too far and pants too tight. He’s living out his 1983 garage band fantasy — still convinced he almost made it. The rest of the band? A rotating cast of young musicians he’s “mentoring,” which is code for “playing Van Halen covers with teens who were born after Napster died.”
You know the type. He opens every set with “You guys ready to ROCK?!”
And then proceeds to absolutely murder Sweet Child O’ Mine.
Like, legally.
2. The Indie Girl Who Hurts Beautifully
Her name is probably Rain. Or Indigo. Or something that sounds like a candle scent. She has the voice of an angel and the stage presence of a TED Talk on trauma. Between songs, we get anecdotes like:
“This next song is about the time my hamster died and I realized no one really stays forever.”
Then she plays a hauntingly beautiful ballad that makes you question your own childhood. And then she tells us her ex is in the audience. And then she points at him.
And then she cries.
And then we cry.
3. The School of Rock Kids
These kids rip. Like, actually talented. But they’re also in open competition with each other because some urban legend says there’s an A&R guy from SubPop in the audience. (Spoiler: There isn’t. That’s a dad in cargo shorts.)
Every guitar solo is played like it’s the final round of Mortal Kombat.
Drummers are flinging sticks.
Bassists are doing jumps they definitely didn’t rehearse.
And the lead singer has a wireless mic and the ego of a Vegas magician.
It’s both exhilarating and deeply exhausting. Like watching caffeinated eagles fight over a Fender.
4. The Youth Group Praise Rockers
This group appears to be a real band until song two. That’s when the trap is sprung.
“We wanna talk to you guys about a different kind of rock… the rock of our salvation.”
Next thing you know, you’re clapping along to a three-minute sermon backed by acoustic chords. They try to baptize a fog machine. You’re not sure if the keyboardist is weeping or just sweaty. Either way, you now owe Jesus $10 on Venmo.
5. The Homeschooled Osmonds
Dressed like they’re on the cover of a 2007 Sears catalog, the family band rolls up with matching vests and alarming confidence. There’s the fiddle prodigy. The beatboxing cousin. And a dad who doesn’t blink.
They perform an original called “Stay Away from TikTok (It’s a Sin)” and then close with a kazoo-led rendition of Carry On Wayward Son.
They are met with thunderous applause from exactly three aunts and a pastor.
🏆 But Wait — The Scoring System!
You thought it would be judged by musicality? Performance? Originality?
Absolutely not.
The battle is determined by a panel of local high school factions:
Three jocks in sleeveless shirts who judge on “vibes,”
Two goths who hate everything except the one ska band that played ironically,
And a woman named Carol who thought she was at a chili cook-off.
It’s like watching The Voice hosted by your worst cafeteria memories.
The crowd boos when their favorite doesn’t win. A baby cries. Someone throws a churro.
🚨 The Grand Finale: Carnage at the Crosswalk
As you try to leave, emotionally battered and musically bruised, you step into the crosswalk. You feel the hope of escape.
But this is CityFest, baby.
Some local real estate agent on their phone plows through the crosswalk in a Ford Escape. Seven people go down. It’s unclear if they’re dead or just stunned by the finale of Freebird.
A commemorative balloon floats into the sky.
Rick the rock mentor yells, “WE LOVE YOU!”
Rain cries into her loop pedal.
A goth starts CPR.
✨ In Conclusion…
The Battle of the Bands is a spiritual test disguised as a musical event.
You will lose songs you love.
You will gain trauma from songs you didn’t even know existed.
You will witness both the rise and fall of mediocre dreams in one humid afternoon.
