Monday, January 31, 2005
Thursday, January 20, 2005
A few quotes, song lyrices, etc.
Plots and character don't make life. Life is here and now, anytime you say the word, anytime you let her rip.
Henry Miller
"We all agree that your theory is crazy, but is it crazy enough?"
-Niels Bohr (1885-1962)
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody but my own confusion.
-Jack Kerouac
Imagination is more important than knowledge...
-Albert Einstein
Well I hope that someday buddy
we have peace in our loves
Together or apart
Alone or with or wives
And we can stop our whoring
And pull the smiles inside
And light it up forever
And never go to sleep
My best darn beaten brother
-Johnny Cash
Humanity has advanced when it has advanced not because it has been sober, responsible, and cautious, but because it has been playful, rebellious, and immature.
-Tom Robbins
When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.
-Hunter S. Thompson
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.
-Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night
The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.
-Hunter S. Thompson
"Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas...with the music at top volume and at least a pint of ether.
- Hunter S. Thompson
We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.
-Tom Robbins
The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.
-Henry Miller
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww."
-Jack Kerouac
To be nobody-but-yourself--in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else--means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
-e e cummings
When you feel in your gut what you are and then dynamically pursue it - don't back down and don't give up - then you're going to mystify a lot of folks.
-Bob Dylan
We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked up at each other for the last time.
-Jack Kerouac
-SMM
Henry Miller
"We all agree that your theory is crazy, but is it crazy enough?"
-Niels Bohr (1885-1962)
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody but my own confusion.
-Jack Kerouac
Imagination is more important than knowledge...
-Albert Einstein
Well I hope that someday buddy
we have peace in our loves
Together or apart
Alone or with or wives
And we can stop our whoring
And pull the smiles inside
And light it up forever
And never go to sleep
My best darn beaten brother
-Johnny Cash
Humanity has advanced when it has advanced not because it has been sober, responsible, and cautious, but because it has been playful, rebellious, and immature.
-Tom Robbins
When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.
-Hunter S. Thompson
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.
-Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night
The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.
-Hunter S. Thompson
"Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas...with the music at top volume and at least a pint of ether.
- Hunter S. Thompson
We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.
-Tom Robbins
The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.
-Henry Miller
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww."
-Jack Kerouac
To be nobody-but-yourself--in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else--means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
-e e cummings
When you feel in your gut what you are and then dynamically pursue it - don't back down and don't give up - then you're going to mystify a lot of folks.
-Bob Dylan
We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked up at each other for the last time.
-Jack Kerouac
-SMM
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Observations in Miniature – People in the Gym V
If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your gym habits.
Little Big Guy (The Napoleon Complex) – Did you just walk under a bench without ducking? No, I’m not staring at you I just looked down because I saw you scurrying across the gym and thought you were a groundhog. You’re what? Five feet two inches tall and weigh two hundred and ten pounds? I’ll let you in on a little secret. Lifting weights isn’t going to make you taller and the wider you get the shorter you look. It’s a no win situation. If you want to attract women I suggest you stop walking like you’re carrying an industrial size can of SpaghettiOs between your thighs. You’re legs aren’t that big and either are your lats so stop holding your arms out to your sides like your carrying invisible luggage. That’s it, make believe time is over. Exhale. It feels good not to have hold all that air in your chest to make it look big doesn’t it? No, I won’t tell anyone you shop in the children’s husky section of Sears.
Aerobics Guy – Okay, to the left now and kick…no, whatever you do don’t fucking high kick. High kicking is an activity that is strictly reserved for female aerobics enthusiasts, female cheerleaders, and members of the Rocketts, none of which you are. And for God’s sake if for some reason you would have to high kick, to say defend yourself in a Ninja battle against a throwing star, make sure you wear some pants that cover your hairy ass. Speaking of asses did you notice the shapely behind of the woman aerobics instructor in front of you? No? Something is definitely wrong here. Did your mother dress you up like Shirley Temple in frilly dresses and red bows and call you little Judy? That’s sad but I’ll let you in on a little secret. You’re not a WOMAN! Get the fuck out of the aerobics room and take off those tight spandex pants they’re cutting the circulation off to your brain.
Senior Woman Trainer – I’m glad to see you’re still trying to take care of yourself. What I’m not glad to see is that sleeveless spandex shirt you’re wearing; when you walk in front of the fan the baggy chicken skin hanging off the back of your arms flaps in the wind like the sail on a pirate ship. Are those nipples just above your pubic line or did you drop Ju Ju Bees down your shirt at lunch? Did you ever hear of a sports bra? Another no no is that tights and spandex shorts combo you’ve got going on. You’re ass looks like a deflated volleyball and I don’t even know if Viagra stands a chance against that visual assault. Here’s a clue. Cover yourself up with a plain grey sweat suit and secure anything that might jiggle or flap in the wind. Got it? Good. Carry on.
Senior Guido Tough Guy – Okay, stop slicking your hair back and put the unbreakable flex comb down, you don’t live on the set of the West Side Story. And wipe the grease spot up your hair left on the bench. Yeah, I’m sure once upon a time, back when you delivered blocks of ice off of a horse drawn cart that you could squat half of what I can do now but guess what? Your sixty years old now and I don’t care who you were. And please wear something other than that wife beater over your odd shaped barrel chest and lose the ID bracelet and gold chains. Ditch those velour sweat pants and Adidas tennis shoes and would it be too much to ask you to wear deodorant? That natural musk you have going on just peeled the paint off the leg extension machine. Don’t fucking growl and grumble and say under your breath that I was never as strong as you. Because guess what? I can hear you and I don’t really have a problem with getting my eight-four year old grandfather to kick your ass.
Stretching Freak (Rubber Woman) – Did you just pull your head between your legs, look over your ass and smile at me? Okay, I get it you’re flexible. You’ve had your leg up on the treadmill for the last 45 minutes stretching out your hamstring. Do you know why Olympic runners stretch so much? It’s because they have something you don’t and it’s called MUSCLE! Earth to rubber woman you are not Houdini. Ease out of that wrestler’s bridge, untwist your arms, and put your shoulders back in joint. And for God’s sake wash your hair it looks like something the street cleaner drug in. I don’t know if you get some kind of buzz off the Zen vibes that emanate up through your stretched muscles but I’ll let you in on a little secret. You don’t need to pay $40 dollars a month to come to the gym and just stretch. You can do that for free at home and really I would prefer that because I have to keep stepping around you like an out of place piece of furniture every time I walk past the treadmills and it’s starting to piss me off.
Circuit Training Guy – One thousand seven. One thousand eight. One thousand nine. How many fucking reps are you going to do on that peck deck machine? Since you started on it I shaved three times and read War & Peace. And how in the fuck did every piece of equipment I want to use end up in your circuit? Every time I turn around you are setting a towel down on the exact piece of equipment I was going to use. Are you purposely trying to piss me off because I’ll let you in on a little secret…YOU ARE PISSING ME OFF! Your physique looks like that of a prepubescent girl so do you really think the circuit training is working? If your goal is to have a physique that looks like that of Pippy Longstocking’s then you’re right on track and I commend you for your efforts but that still leaves us with the problem of you hogging up every damn machine in the gym so I’m going to make a modest proposal. Stay the fuck off the machines I want to use and I won’t meet you outside the gym when you’re done working out and kick your ass. Sound fair? Good. Carry on.
Little Big Guy (The Napoleon Complex) – Did you just walk under a bench without ducking? No, I’m not staring at you I just looked down because I saw you scurrying across the gym and thought you were a groundhog. You’re what? Five feet two inches tall and weigh two hundred and ten pounds? I’ll let you in on a little secret. Lifting weights isn’t going to make you taller and the wider you get the shorter you look. It’s a no win situation. If you want to attract women I suggest you stop walking like you’re carrying an industrial size can of SpaghettiOs between your thighs. You’re legs aren’t that big and either are your lats so stop holding your arms out to your sides like your carrying invisible luggage. That’s it, make believe time is over. Exhale. It feels good not to have hold all that air in your chest to make it look big doesn’t it? No, I won’t tell anyone you shop in the children’s husky section of Sears.
Aerobics Guy – Okay, to the left now and kick…no, whatever you do don’t fucking high kick. High kicking is an activity that is strictly reserved for female aerobics enthusiasts, female cheerleaders, and members of the Rocketts, none of which you are. And for God’s sake if for some reason you would have to high kick, to say defend yourself in a Ninja battle against a throwing star, make sure you wear some pants that cover your hairy ass. Speaking of asses did you notice the shapely behind of the woman aerobics instructor in front of you? No? Something is definitely wrong here. Did your mother dress you up like Shirley Temple in frilly dresses and red bows and call you little Judy? That’s sad but I’ll let you in on a little secret. You’re not a WOMAN! Get the fuck out of the aerobics room and take off those tight spandex pants they’re cutting the circulation off to your brain.
Senior Woman Trainer – I’m glad to see you’re still trying to take care of yourself. What I’m not glad to see is that sleeveless spandex shirt you’re wearing; when you walk in front of the fan the baggy chicken skin hanging off the back of your arms flaps in the wind like the sail on a pirate ship. Are those nipples just above your pubic line or did you drop Ju Ju Bees down your shirt at lunch? Did you ever hear of a sports bra? Another no no is that tights and spandex shorts combo you’ve got going on. You’re ass looks like a deflated volleyball and I don’t even know if Viagra stands a chance against that visual assault. Here’s a clue. Cover yourself up with a plain grey sweat suit and secure anything that might jiggle or flap in the wind. Got it? Good. Carry on.
Senior Guido Tough Guy – Okay, stop slicking your hair back and put the unbreakable flex comb down, you don’t live on the set of the West Side Story. And wipe the grease spot up your hair left on the bench. Yeah, I’m sure once upon a time, back when you delivered blocks of ice off of a horse drawn cart that you could squat half of what I can do now but guess what? Your sixty years old now and I don’t care who you were. And please wear something other than that wife beater over your odd shaped barrel chest and lose the ID bracelet and gold chains. Ditch those velour sweat pants and Adidas tennis shoes and would it be too much to ask you to wear deodorant? That natural musk you have going on just peeled the paint off the leg extension machine. Don’t fucking growl and grumble and say under your breath that I was never as strong as you. Because guess what? I can hear you and I don’t really have a problem with getting my eight-four year old grandfather to kick your ass.
Stretching Freak (Rubber Woman) – Did you just pull your head between your legs, look over your ass and smile at me? Okay, I get it you’re flexible. You’ve had your leg up on the treadmill for the last 45 minutes stretching out your hamstring. Do you know why Olympic runners stretch so much? It’s because they have something you don’t and it’s called MUSCLE! Earth to rubber woman you are not Houdini. Ease out of that wrestler’s bridge, untwist your arms, and put your shoulders back in joint. And for God’s sake wash your hair it looks like something the street cleaner drug in. I don’t know if you get some kind of buzz off the Zen vibes that emanate up through your stretched muscles but I’ll let you in on a little secret. You don’t need to pay $40 dollars a month to come to the gym and just stretch. You can do that for free at home and really I would prefer that because I have to keep stepping around you like an out of place piece of furniture every time I walk past the treadmills and it’s starting to piss me off.
Circuit Training Guy – One thousand seven. One thousand eight. One thousand nine. How many fucking reps are you going to do on that peck deck machine? Since you started on it I shaved three times and read War & Peace. And how in the fuck did every piece of equipment I want to use end up in your circuit? Every time I turn around you are setting a towel down on the exact piece of equipment I was going to use. Are you purposely trying to piss me off because I’ll let you in on a little secret…YOU ARE PISSING ME OFF! Your physique looks like that of a prepubescent girl so do you really think the circuit training is working? If your goal is to have a physique that looks like that of Pippy Longstocking’s then you’re right on track and I commend you for your efforts but that still leaves us with the problem of you hogging up every damn machine in the gym so I’m going to make a modest proposal. Stay the fuck off the machines I want to use and I won’t meet you outside the gym when you’re done working out and kick your ass. Sound fair? Good. Carry on.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Observations in Miniature: People in the Gym IV
If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your gym habits.
Speeding Treadmill Woman -– Hello, is there anybody home under that igloo of sweat clothes you have on? Exactly how fast is that treadmill of yours turned up to? You have to hold onto the safety bar to keep from flying off the back and every five or six steps you slip and are running on your knees. Here’s a clue. Don’t eat an entire fucking cheesecake and a bag of Grandma Utz’s potato chips and then expect to come into the gym and do some insane marathon of a workout and get rid of the extra 6000 calories you just ingested. You’re built like Marlon Brando not because you don’t exercise enough. You look like him because you take in enough calories to sustain every sea fairer that ever sailed in the Spanish Armada.
Ambiguous she/he – Okay, I’m not going to ask. I think I saw you come out of the women’s locker room but my thoughts are that you might have just walked into the wrong locker room to start with? I’m I right? Can you give me a hint? No, I’m not trying to compete with you I don’t even know what you are. Don’t dress in Chuck Taylors and men’s basketball shorts and cut your hair down so you look like Pee Wee Herman if you’re a woman. That tattoo on your arm does that say I love Jean? That’s no help. Why did you just get pissed off at me and say I'm a male chauvinist while I was talking to that woman at the water fountain? Do you have a crush on her? Do you have a crush on me? Do you have a crush on the water fountain? Someone somewhere has the answer and please don’t venture into the Twilight Zone of your sexuality and threaten to pull your pants down. My heart couldn’t take that.
White Sista Worker Outer – I don’t know if you’ve looked in the mirror in the last 25 years but I’m going to let you in on a little secret…YOUR WHITE! If I hear you say “shizzle to da shiznit” one more time I’m going to blow the gym up. While you’re on the stair stepper reading Ebony did you notice that no one in that magazine looked like YOU! No? No matter how much time you spend in the tanning bed or how many hair extensions you glue to your scalp you aren’t going to be black. Your ass is as flat as freezer door and no matter how many reps on the Butt Blaster you do you’re never going to get that elusive ghetto onion you’re after. I have an idea. Pretend for a moment you’re white. How does it feel? Kind of weird isn’t it? Now imagine that both your parents were white and all your grandparents and all your great grandparents and so forth back through history were white because, well, they were. Now guess what that means? YOUR FUCKING WHITE.
Farm-aceutical Hay Seed– (Is this guy just at my gym?) Did grandpa Zeke drop you on your oblong head when you were an infant because you have to be the stupidest person I’ve ever met? Really, you work on the family farm and dip into the supply of veterinary steroids? The zits on your back the size of prunes were my first clue that you might be experimenting with Gus the Mules hormone therapy medication, the second would be that your eyes are so yellow with jaundice that it looks like someone pissed in your ear hole and filled up your hollow head. I’m not stronger than you because I take more goat thyroid than you. Believe it or not I’ve never opened up an animal’s medicine cabinet. I’m stronger because I exercise the muscle between my ears. Yeah, that atrophied thing in your skull that rattles around like a petrified dinosaur turd is your brain and you should start using it before you kill yourself with the next injection of pig growth hormone.
Rico Suave – You did not just put some foreign fucking substance in your hair and then hastily comb it back with your hand did you? Because something wet just hit me on the arm and if you cherish your machismo you will go get me a paper fucking towel and some disinfectant and wipe my arm down this instant. And after you’re done lying on a bench clean the grease stain up that your head has left there. And don’t talk in Spanish at 5000 rpms and then point in my direction and laugh I just might mistake you for a barbell and try to put a 45 pound plate on your head. Comprende? Good now turn down your MP3 player that rumba music is driving me insane. And by the way in case you haven’t noticed, which obviously you haven’t because you just checked again, you look exactly the same as you did three seconds ago when you looked in the mirror.
Hyperactive Aerobics Instructor – One and two and one and two and one and two and…Okay, stop it. Slow the fuck down. We get it you’re peppy. You did not just do a split on top of the Gatorade machine did you? Where’s the off switch? It’s good to have energy but when you get home and have sex by sitting on your husband with two and one half pound dumbbells in each hand and count out reps each time you pump up and down it’s time to admit you have a workout addiction. Wipe that grin off your face. Nobody is really that happy. That false bravado and forced giddiness were just what your cheerleading coach in high school ordered but the older you get the less and less cute it is. I would suggest hanging out at your local biker bar. Drink beer. Learn to fart on command and scowl. That’s it baby’s got a new tattoo. Did you just say cocksucker? Great. Welcome back to the human race.
Speeding Treadmill Woman -– Hello, is there anybody home under that igloo of sweat clothes you have on? Exactly how fast is that treadmill of yours turned up to? You have to hold onto the safety bar to keep from flying off the back and every five or six steps you slip and are running on your knees. Here’s a clue. Don’t eat an entire fucking cheesecake and a bag of Grandma Utz’s potato chips and then expect to come into the gym and do some insane marathon of a workout and get rid of the extra 6000 calories you just ingested. You’re built like Marlon Brando not because you don’t exercise enough. You look like him because you take in enough calories to sustain every sea fairer that ever sailed in the Spanish Armada.
Ambiguous she/he – Okay, I’m not going to ask. I think I saw you come out of the women’s locker room but my thoughts are that you might have just walked into the wrong locker room to start with? I’m I right? Can you give me a hint? No, I’m not trying to compete with you I don’t even know what you are. Don’t dress in Chuck Taylors and men’s basketball shorts and cut your hair down so you look like Pee Wee Herman if you’re a woman. That tattoo on your arm does that say I love Jean? That’s no help. Why did you just get pissed off at me and say I'm a male chauvinist while I was talking to that woman at the water fountain? Do you have a crush on her? Do you have a crush on me? Do you have a crush on the water fountain? Someone somewhere has the answer and please don’t venture into the Twilight Zone of your sexuality and threaten to pull your pants down. My heart couldn’t take that.
White Sista Worker Outer – I don’t know if you’ve looked in the mirror in the last 25 years but I’m going to let you in on a little secret…YOUR WHITE! If I hear you say “shizzle to da shiznit” one more time I’m going to blow the gym up. While you’re on the stair stepper reading Ebony did you notice that no one in that magazine looked like YOU! No? No matter how much time you spend in the tanning bed or how many hair extensions you glue to your scalp you aren’t going to be black. Your ass is as flat as freezer door and no matter how many reps on the Butt Blaster you do you’re never going to get that elusive ghetto onion you’re after. I have an idea. Pretend for a moment you’re white. How does it feel? Kind of weird isn’t it? Now imagine that both your parents were white and all your grandparents and all your great grandparents and so forth back through history were white because, well, they were. Now guess what that means? YOUR FUCKING WHITE.
Farm-aceutical Hay Seed– (Is this guy just at my gym?) Did grandpa Zeke drop you on your oblong head when you were an infant because you have to be the stupidest person I’ve ever met? Really, you work on the family farm and dip into the supply of veterinary steroids? The zits on your back the size of prunes were my first clue that you might be experimenting with Gus the Mules hormone therapy medication, the second would be that your eyes are so yellow with jaundice that it looks like someone pissed in your ear hole and filled up your hollow head. I’m not stronger than you because I take more goat thyroid than you. Believe it or not I’ve never opened up an animal’s medicine cabinet. I’m stronger because I exercise the muscle between my ears. Yeah, that atrophied thing in your skull that rattles around like a petrified dinosaur turd is your brain and you should start using it before you kill yourself with the next injection of pig growth hormone.
Rico Suave – You did not just put some foreign fucking substance in your hair and then hastily comb it back with your hand did you? Because something wet just hit me on the arm and if you cherish your machismo you will go get me a paper fucking towel and some disinfectant and wipe my arm down this instant. And after you’re done lying on a bench clean the grease stain up that your head has left there. And don’t talk in Spanish at 5000 rpms and then point in my direction and laugh I just might mistake you for a barbell and try to put a 45 pound plate on your head. Comprende? Good now turn down your MP3 player that rumba music is driving me insane. And by the way in case you haven’t noticed, which obviously you haven’t because you just checked again, you look exactly the same as you did three seconds ago when you looked in the mirror.
Hyperactive Aerobics Instructor – One and two and one and two and one and two and…Okay, stop it. Slow the fuck down. We get it you’re peppy. You did not just do a split on top of the Gatorade machine did you? Where’s the off switch? It’s good to have energy but when you get home and have sex by sitting on your husband with two and one half pound dumbbells in each hand and count out reps each time you pump up and down it’s time to admit you have a workout addiction. Wipe that grin off your face. Nobody is really that happy. That false bravado and forced giddiness were just what your cheerleading coach in high school ordered but the older you get the less and less cute it is. I would suggest hanging out at your local biker bar. Drink beer. Learn to fart on command and scowl. That’s it baby’s got a new tattoo. Did you just say cocksucker? Great. Welcome back to the human race.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Observations in Miniature: Different Drivers II
If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your driving habits.
Crotch Rocket Punk – Could you rev that motorcycle a little louder my other ear drum hasn’t blown out yet? Not wearing a helmet is a good move it just shows me you don’t have much up there to protect anyway. This is what Darwin called survival of the fittest and your kind will soon enough wipe themselves out. And no that Nautica T-shirt isn’t going to protect you when you go flying over the handle bars and skid across the interstate on your stomach. Sorry, I just ran over your nipples trying to avoid the ten car pile you caused. Hopefully they’ll be able to sew those back on if you make it. If not maybe a vulture will eat them, fly over the ocean, shit them out and in this way they will have a burial at sea. The next time you decide to go weaving in and out of cars in a traffic jam at maximum speeds just remember how easy it would be for me to open my door. And oh yeah good luck with the career at Ruby Tuesdays as a “chef.”
Sleazy Trucker – How imaginative, naked lady mud flaps. I’ve never seen those before. 1-800-How’s My Driving? How about 1-800- It Fucking Sucks. You just cut me off going 80 miles over the speed limit on an icy road. Maybe your life is worth risking to deliver a shipment of doll heads to Walmart by 5 o’clock but mine isn’t so back off. I get it you’re tired and angry. Did your meth dealer cut his product too much this time? Did that lot lizard at the last truck stop not want to stick a Maglite up your ass and call you Betty Boop? Tough luck but driving at 130 miles per hour with those neocon cocksuckers Brooks and Dunn wailing in the background like two injured seagulls won’t make up for that. The only thing it will do is cause you to hit a row of cars waiting at a stoplight and if this happens you’d better pray to the jiggling hula girl on your dashboard that I’m not in one of those cars because if I am the Maglite won’t go up your ass it will go upside your bloated head.
Packed Station Wagon Guy – Are you related to the Clampetts? Because the only thing that’s missing from the back of your station wagon is Grandma’s rocking chair. How could you possibly accumulate that much shit and stuff it in the back of one vehicle? You say you’re a hoarder? No, get out of town. Those piles of newspapers dating back to the early eighties and the Tupperware lids, rubber bands, old brassieres, dog collars, plastic shopping bags are not treasures they are GARBAGE! Drive that heap straightaway to a dump and unload. You will find you’ll get 40-50 more miles to the gallon and you might find that interbred son of yours that you thought ran away ten years ago under a stack of flattened Krimpet boxes.
Bill the Volunteer Fire Fighter – Okay, slow the fuck downs the Spicy burrito at Taco Bell is not a three alarm fire call. Turn that eight foot high rack of swirling lights off on top of your 78 Chevy Impala; no one needs that much illumination unless they’re landing aircraft at night. I know your job is thankless one so let me be the first to thank you but to also add that you're not a cop. That’s right, stop wearing that blue uniform that your grandmother sewed for you, it doesn’t give you the authority to pass me by driving over the flower bed in the middle of town. We need to find you a girlfriend before you start hiding bodies under your floorboards in your house so I suggest you get some acne medication, deodorant, shampoo and trade in your walkie talkie for a cell phone. That sixteen foot antennae on the roof of your car and the 4 x 6 foot side mirrors need to go too. Believe me you’ll be able to see fine without them. Now, ask her out but don’t take her to the all you can eat Firehouse pancake breakfast at least take her to Ruby Tuesday where Crotch Rocket Punk will prepare you burritos for two from a box.
Eating Daddy Driver – Did you just unfold a table cloth and drape it over the dashboard? And blow those fucking candles out. First of all the car is not a place to have a picnic. I know you want to make it to Dolly World and have maximum fun time at the wave pool watching buxom teenage girls bounce up and down but you’re swerving all over the fucking road and endangering me. That’s it two hands on the wheel. Put the 4 gallon Diet Pepsi down, spit the KFC drumstick out and wipe off your grease mustache. I have an idea. Instead of vacationing American style and adding more blubber to you’re already doughy physiques why not vacation in Ethiopia? There won’t be fast food and in some cases toilet paper might not be available but you might learn something other than how to balance a king sized double chocolate milk shake on your steering wheel while careening through traffic and by the time you get back your four family members combined weight won’t exceed the restrictions on most freight elevators.
Speeding Trooper – First of all lighten the fuck up. Your scowling so hard you could crack walnuts in the creases in your forehead. Does that chin strip ever go in the right place? I’ve seen it under the nose, under the lip, under the second double chin but never under the actual chin itself so after you guys figure out the saga of the chin strap you might want to work on slowing the fuck down and learning how to use turn signals. If you check your handbook I think you’ll find you’re not above the law so you might want to obey it too. I know I’m not a hot chick so you won’t let me off when I’m in the position to get a ticket but I’ll make a deal with you. If you learn how to buckle up that chin strap properly I won’t speed.
Crotch Rocket Punk – Could you rev that motorcycle a little louder my other ear drum hasn’t blown out yet? Not wearing a helmet is a good move it just shows me you don’t have much up there to protect anyway. This is what Darwin called survival of the fittest and your kind will soon enough wipe themselves out. And no that Nautica T-shirt isn’t going to protect you when you go flying over the handle bars and skid across the interstate on your stomach. Sorry, I just ran over your nipples trying to avoid the ten car pile you caused. Hopefully they’ll be able to sew those back on if you make it. If not maybe a vulture will eat them, fly over the ocean, shit them out and in this way they will have a burial at sea. The next time you decide to go weaving in and out of cars in a traffic jam at maximum speeds just remember how easy it would be for me to open my door. And oh yeah good luck with the career at Ruby Tuesdays as a “chef.”
Sleazy Trucker – How imaginative, naked lady mud flaps. I’ve never seen those before. 1-800-How’s My Driving? How about 1-800- It Fucking Sucks. You just cut me off going 80 miles over the speed limit on an icy road. Maybe your life is worth risking to deliver a shipment of doll heads to Walmart by 5 o’clock but mine isn’t so back off. I get it you’re tired and angry. Did your meth dealer cut his product too much this time? Did that lot lizard at the last truck stop not want to stick a Maglite up your ass and call you Betty Boop? Tough luck but driving at 130 miles per hour with those neocon cocksuckers Brooks and Dunn wailing in the background like two injured seagulls won’t make up for that. The only thing it will do is cause you to hit a row of cars waiting at a stoplight and if this happens you’d better pray to the jiggling hula girl on your dashboard that I’m not in one of those cars because if I am the Maglite won’t go up your ass it will go upside your bloated head.
Packed Station Wagon Guy – Are you related to the Clampetts? Because the only thing that’s missing from the back of your station wagon is Grandma’s rocking chair. How could you possibly accumulate that much shit and stuff it in the back of one vehicle? You say you’re a hoarder? No, get out of town. Those piles of newspapers dating back to the early eighties and the Tupperware lids, rubber bands, old brassieres, dog collars, plastic shopping bags are not treasures they are GARBAGE! Drive that heap straightaway to a dump and unload. You will find you’ll get 40-50 more miles to the gallon and you might find that interbred son of yours that you thought ran away ten years ago under a stack of flattened Krimpet boxes.
Bill the Volunteer Fire Fighter – Okay, slow the fuck downs the Spicy burrito at Taco Bell is not a three alarm fire call. Turn that eight foot high rack of swirling lights off on top of your 78 Chevy Impala; no one needs that much illumination unless they’re landing aircraft at night. I know your job is thankless one so let me be the first to thank you but to also add that you're not a cop. That’s right, stop wearing that blue uniform that your grandmother sewed for you, it doesn’t give you the authority to pass me by driving over the flower bed in the middle of town. We need to find you a girlfriend before you start hiding bodies under your floorboards in your house so I suggest you get some acne medication, deodorant, shampoo and trade in your walkie talkie for a cell phone. That sixteen foot antennae on the roof of your car and the 4 x 6 foot side mirrors need to go too. Believe me you’ll be able to see fine without them. Now, ask her out but don’t take her to the all you can eat Firehouse pancake breakfast at least take her to Ruby Tuesday where Crotch Rocket Punk will prepare you burritos for two from a box.
Eating Daddy Driver – Did you just unfold a table cloth and drape it over the dashboard? And blow those fucking candles out. First of all the car is not a place to have a picnic. I know you want to make it to Dolly World and have maximum fun time at the wave pool watching buxom teenage girls bounce up and down but you’re swerving all over the fucking road and endangering me. That’s it two hands on the wheel. Put the 4 gallon Diet Pepsi down, spit the KFC drumstick out and wipe off your grease mustache. I have an idea. Instead of vacationing American style and adding more blubber to you’re already doughy physiques why not vacation in Ethiopia? There won’t be fast food and in some cases toilet paper might not be available but you might learn something other than how to balance a king sized double chocolate milk shake on your steering wheel while careening through traffic and by the time you get back your four family members combined weight won’t exceed the restrictions on most freight elevators.
Speeding Trooper – First of all lighten the fuck up. Your scowling so hard you could crack walnuts in the creases in your forehead. Does that chin strip ever go in the right place? I’ve seen it under the nose, under the lip, under the second double chin but never under the actual chin itself so after you guys figure out the saga of the chin strap you might want to work on slowing the fuck down and learning how to use turn signals. If you check your handbook I think you’ll find you’re not above the law so you might want to obey it too. I know I’m not a hot chick so you won’t let me off when I’m in the position to get a ticket but I’ll make a deal with you. If you learn how to buckle up that chin strap properly I won’t speed.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Observations in Miniature: People in the Gym III
If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your gym habits.
Gym Worker Guy (Don’t kick me out of the gym. I was asked to do some of these.) – Hey asshole, yeah you dusting the smoothie machine, how about coming over here and picking this barbell up off my neck? Do you get paid just to look good? If so you’re not doing your job. Don’t give me a dirty look I don’t think I know more about working out than you do. I know I know more. Maybe the first clue I have that makes me believe I have superior workout knowledge is that your physique looks like that of Colonel Sander’s, a man that ate fried chicken daily for 80 years. It is also apparent that you know little by the unsolicited workout advice you give. Did you just tell that me to twist the cable around my back and pinch my shoulder blades together so I will get a peak on my traps? Maybe you’d better stop reading Muscle & Fitness magazine and start paying attention to all the people in your gym that are as clueless as you are because I think one of them just hung himself on the lat pull down.
Gym Nomad – What the fuck are you doing in the gym? You’re sure as Hell not working out. Every time I look up you’re walking around with that towel around your neck. It seems the only rhyme or reason to your workout is that every other piece of equipment you want to use is on the other side of the gym. Although, I’ve never seen you use anything once you get there. And stop it with that fucking grin it’s freaking me out. I have an idea. Get on a fucking treadmill and then you can walk in place and instead of you walking by everyone in the gym fifty or sixty times in an hour they can walk by you! It’s a novel idea and it may take time to adjust but in the end I won’t have to see you and really, that’s all that matters.
Gym Maintenance Woman – Could you please not run that vacuum under the bench while I’m going for a maximum weight? You might want to concentrate on that dust ball the size of a raccoon in the corner while people are on the equipment and for God’s sake please don’t spray disinfectant next to me while I’m performing a set of triceps extensions. First of all I don’t know what chemicals concoction is that I just inhaled and second of all I’ve just been blinded and can’t see to put the weight back on the rack. Your job is thankless, I understand this and perhaps you need to advertise a bit. Secure a bucket to your belt and tape a sign to it that says: TIPS. I will pay you to get the fuck away from me while I’m trying to lift weights.
Quarter Squat Guy – Head band. Check. Skimpy running shorts. Check. Shirt with sleeves cut off. Check. Joe Weider 1/18 of an inch Junior leather weightlifting belt. Check. Strength…oh, that’s right you’re not strong and no matter how many times you quarter squat 405 lbs you’re not going to get any stronger. Every time I see you lift that 405 lbs barbell and your whole body begins to quake and the sweat pours out of your comb-over and collects in your headband I have to turn away. It’s just too painful to watch. You have the knees of a sixty-five year old arthritic fluffer who’s been in the porn business for forty-five years. That’s a lot of time to spend on your knees and 405 lbs is a lot of weight to hold on your spindly spine. For the sake of your joints and my sanity please vacate the squat rack and move to the leg extension machine. I don’t want to have to clean you up with a dust pan when you finally snap in half.
Tanning Queen – You’re twenty-five! You look old enough to have voted for Hoover during his first term. If someone put a handle on your back I’d think you were an alligator suit case. Those aren’t crow’s feet around your eyes they look more like the claw marks left by a vulture. I know you want to be fashionably brown but barbecuing yourself like a porterhouse everyday is not going to make you more attractive. First we have to establish the fact that a tanning session is not a workout and you can’t cover that pouch under your belly button, which looks like your trying to smuggle an Easter ham across a hostile border, with a darker tan. You need to actually exercise to lose that excess pork and this involves MOVING! We’ll take it slow at first, a trip to the stair stepper and back and we’ll withdraw you from the ultra violet rays one hour at a time so by next Christmas your skin won’t look like the turkey’s that's sitting in the center of the table.
The Ladies Man – Did you just slip Barry White into the Gym’s stereo system and sneak back to the breaker box and dim the lights? The gym is not your bachelor pad, put the radio back on and turn up the lights. Here’s a clue as to why your workout takes five hours. While walking from the locker room to the free weights you talk to and touch every fucking woman in the gym. Do you really think they believe you to be as witty as you think you are? They know you just want to get laid so cut out the bullshit and give them a business card that reads: I like to Fuck and Run. This will cut your workout down to fifteen minutes. And for God’s sake please stop smothering yourself in that cut rate cologne that you buy by the oil drum at Costco; this is not an alternative to washing with soap and hot water. You smell like something the pimp dragged in. Yes, everyone can hear your over exaggerated laugh and see your white teeth as you pretend to be amused but are really scoping out the next piece of “ass.” You have a problem it’s called an over-exaggerated sense of self and while I was going to get a drink of water I tripped over your ego which has now engulfed half the gym. So reel it in. Show some modesty. Take off the spandex pants, lower your eyes and quit laughing so much to show how jolly you are because although you’re laughing on the outside everyone else is laughing on the inside at the buffoon you’ve become.
Angry Workout Woman – Did you just bight a ten penny nail in half? Chill, I’m not staring at you, it just so happens you’re standing in front of the clock! And besides how would you know I was looking at you if you weren’t looking at me? Makes you think doesn’t it? Maybe you’re not the bitch everyone thinks you are. Maybe underneath that makeup spackled on your face there is a decent woman but I doubt it. If the gym environment makes you hostile maybe you should fill old milk jugs up with cement and throw those around your yard because every time I look up and see your sour face it ruins my day. Did your boyfriend break up with you and now you hate all men? I can’t possibly see why he’d break up with you, it seems like you’re such a kind and loving person. Maybe he’s the asshole but somehow I doubt it. My advice as unlicensed physician would be to lighten the fuck up because the way things are going the only people that are going to show up at your funeral are the Ladies Man, because he’ll think there might be a chance he’ll get laid, and the crazy woman with fifty cats that lived in the apartment above you. Not much of a send off is it? So yeah, I was looking at the clock but if I wasn’t who the fuck cares?
Gym Worker Guy (Don’t kick me out of the gym. I was asked to do some of these.) – Hey asshole, yeah you dusting the smoothie machine, how about coming over here and picking this barbell up off my neck? Do you get paid just to look good? If so you’re not doing your job. Don’t give me a dirty look I don’t think I know more about working out than you do. I know I know more. Maybe the first clue I have that makes me believe I have superior workout knowledge is that your physique looks like that of Colonel Sander’s, a man that ate fried chicken daily for 80 years. It is also apparent that you know little by the unsolicited workout advice you give. Did you just tell that me to twist the cable around my back and pinch my shoulder blades together so I will get a peak on my traps? Maybe you’d better stop reading Muscle & Fitness magazine and start paying attention to all the people in your gym that are as clueless as you are because I think one of them just hung himself on the lat pull down.
Gym Nomad – What the fuck are you doing in the gym? You’re sure as Hell not working out. Every time I look up you’re walking around with that towel around your neck. It seems the only rhyme or reason to your workout is that every other piece of equipment you want to use is on the other side of the gym. Although, I’ve never seen you use anything once you get there. And stop it with that fucking grin it’s freaking me out. I have an idea. Get on a fucking treadmill and then you can walk in place and instead of you walking by everyone in the gym fifty or sixty times in an hour they can walk by you! It’s a novel idea and it may take time to adjust but in the end I won’t have to see you and really, that’s all that matters.
Gym Maintenance Woman – Could you please not run that vacuum under the bench while I’m going for a maximum weight? You might want to concentrate on that dust ball the size of a raccoon in the corner while people are on the equipment and for God’s sake please don’t spray disinfectant next to me while I’m performing a set of triceps extensions. First of all I don’t know what chemicals concoction is that I just inhaled and second of all I’ve just been blinded and can’t see to put the weight back on the rack. Your job is thankless, I understand this and perhaps you need to advertise a bit. Secure a bucket to your belt and tape a sign to it that says: TIPS. I will pay you to get the fuck away from me while I’m trying to lift weights.
Quarter Squat Guy – Head band. Check. Skimpy running shorts. Check. Shirt with sleeves cut off. Check. Joe Weider 1/18 of an inch Junior leather weightlifting belt. Check. Strength…oh, that’s right you’re not strong and no matter how many times you quarter squat 405 lbs you’re not going to get any stronger. Every time I see you lift that 405 lbs barbell and your whole body begins to quake and the sweat pours out of your comb-over and collects in your headband I have to turn away. It’s just too painful to watch. You have the knees of a sixty-five year old arthritic fluffer who’s been in the porn business for forty-five years. That’s a lot of time to spend on your knees and 405 lbs is a lot of weight to hold on your spindly spine. For the sake of your joints and my sanity please vacate the squat rack and move to the leg extension machine. I don’t want to have to clean you up with a dust pan when you finally snap in half.
Tanning Queen – You’re twenty-five! You look old enough to have voted for Hoover during his first term. If someone put a handle on your back I’d think you were an alligator suit case. Those aren’t crow’s feet around your eyes they look more like the claw marks left by a vulture. I know you want to be fashionably brown but barbecuing yourself like a porterhouse everyday is not going to make you more attractive. First we have to establish the fact that a tanning session is not a workout and you can’t cover that pouch under your belly button, which looks like your trying to smuggle an Easter ham across a hostile border, with a darker tan. You need to actually exercise to lose that excess pork and this involves MOVING! We’ll take it slow at first, a trip to the stair stepper and back and we’ll withdraw you from the ultra violet rays one hour at a time so by next Christmas your skin won’t look like the turkey’s that's sitting in the center of the table.
The Ladies Man – Did you just slip Barry White into the Gym’s stereo system and sneak back to the breaker box and dim the lights? The gym is not your bachelor pad, put the radio back on and turn up the lights. Here’s a clue as to why your workout takes five hours. While walking from the locker room to the free weights you talk to and touch every fucking woman in the gym. Do you really think they believe you to be as witty as you think you are? They know you just want to get laid so cut out the bullshit and give them a business card that reads: I like to Fuck and Run. This will cut your workout down to fifteen minutes. And for God’s sake please stop smothering yourself in that cut rate cologne that you buy by the oil drum at Costco; this is not an alternative to washing with soap and hot water. You smell like something the pimp dragged in. Yes, everyone can hear your over exaggerated laugh and see your white teeth as you pretend to be amused but are really scoping out the next piece of “ass.” You have a problem it’s called an over-exaggerated sense of self and while I was going to get a drink of water I tripped over your ego which has now engulfed half the gym. So reel it in. Show some modesty. Take off the spandex pants, lower your eyes and quit laughing so much to show how jolly you are because although you’re laughing on the outside everyone else is laughing on the inside at the buffoon you’ve become.
Angry Workout Woman – Did you just bight a ten penny nail in half? Chill, I’m not staring at you, it just so happens you’re standing in front of the clock! And besides how would you know I was looking at you if you weren’t looking at me? Makes you think doesn’t it? Maybe you’re not the bitch everyone thinks you are. Maybe underneath that makeup spackled on your face there is a decent woman but I doubt it. If the gym environment makes you hostile maybe you should fill old milk jugs up with cement and throw those around your yard because every time I look up and see your sour face it ruins my day. Did your boyfriend break up with you and now you hate all men? I can’t possibly see why he’d break up with you, it seems like you’re such a kind and loving person. Maybe he’s the asshole but somehow I doubt it. My advice as unlicensed physician would be to lighten the fuck up because the way things are going the only people that are going to show up at your funeral are the Ladies Man, because he’ll think there might be a chance he’ll get laid, and the crazy woman with fifty cats that lived in the apartment above you. Not much of a send off is it? So yeah, I was looking at the clock but if I wasn’t who the fuck cares?
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