If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your beach going habits. (Thanks Mark & Bookfraud)
College Punk Throwing Football – Yeah, touchdown, asshole. Did you notice you just ran over my fucking beach towel? Or that you just kicked a cubic foot of fucking sand into my soda? Nice seventy dollar T-shirt. You like Abercrombe & Fitch? How about black & eye? That’s my own personal line and I’d be more than happy to introduce it to you one fist at a time. Sports are great but you don’t play golf on your grandmother’s bed do you? Yes…well, let me think of another analogy…no, fuck it. Just don’t throw a football anywhere near someone lying on the beach because the next person you hit with a football on the side of the head might not be an eighty year old lady with emphysema inhaling on an oxygen tank, it might be me and I won't just writhe around in the sand and spit phlegm and Polygrip up on you. I'll snap you in half like a chow mein noodle. So, if you cherish your future beer bong days you will take that fucking football to a vacant part of the beach now. Get it? Got it? Good.
Annoying Photographer – Did you just do an 8-ball of speed and drink a gallon of coffee? I swear to fucking God if you run by me one more time with those little plastic viewfinders jiggling and making that annoying clacking sound I’m going to strangle you with your camera strap. Would I like you to take a portrait of me and my friends? First of all I don’t have any friends. Second of all you already asked me three times and my answer is still no. Really, it’s only twenty dollars for a picture that’s as big as a postage stamp that I have to look at through a fucking ten cent piece of plastic to see? It would sound like a good deal to me if I were a fucking ant! Oh, that’s original fifteen high school kids stacked on top of each other in a pyramid. That’s a picture they’ll cherish threw their little viewfinders for the next week or two until it falls off their fucking key chains!
Sleazy Thong Guy – Sweet mother of Moses please tell me you’re not wearing a thong. For all that is holy I beg of you to wrap a towel around yourself. It looks like you have a dead rat and two Clementine tangerines stuffed in the front of that thing. What would possess you to wear something like that? You have bigger than average gut and nose hair that is so long a gerbil could swing on it like Tarzan. YOU ARE NOT SEXY! You are disgusting and so greasy I can almost hear the oil oozing from your pores. You have so much fucking cologne on that when you walked by my eyes watered like I had just diced a bag of onions. You need a full body waxing…except of course on your head which by the way is covered with what looks like something my neighbor’s cat barfed up. No! For God’s sake don’t bend over. Let the fat kid pick up his own Frisbee.
Red Fat Guy Drinking Beer and Fishing – Did you just walk out of the core of a nuclear reactor? You are by far the reddest mother fucker I’ve ever seen in my life. Have you ever heard of sunblock? Nice hat with lures all over it. Are you fishing in a swimming area? That’s not a marlin you’re reeling in; it’s a little fat kid. Have you ever heard a marlin cuss like that? See the blood pouring from the wound where the treble hook is lodged under his ribs? Maybe if you weren’t so fucking drunk you’d be able to tell the difference between a fish and a fat kid. Pabst Blue Ribbon? Why do I have the distinct feeling that this beer would never win a fucking blue ribbon in any contest? Maybe because it’s $8 a case and smells like cat urine. So pour out that beer and throw the fat kid back. Someone has to keep McDonald’s in business. And get rid of that bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I can hear your arteries wheezing above the din of the breaking waves.
Little Brats and Doting Mothers– Oh look, your sweet children are feeding those fucking filthy seagulls French fries and they are dive bombing me and shitting all over my fucking beach towel. Do you think you could get them to stop? No, not after you take some pictures. Now! Oh, look little Bobby just yanked down his pants and is pissing on the sand. Let me get the camera. No, don’t get the camera. I’ve got a better idea. Take the little bastard to a toilet on the boardwalk. The spray from your kid’s piss speckled the novel I was reading. Bobby is not a cat and the beach is not his personal litter box. And another thing, I’m really sorry little Janie didn’t get her twelfth Jello Pudding Pop but she is screaming so loud that the lenses of my sunglasses just shattered. It’s not child abuse if you smack her ass and tell her to shut the fuck up. I appreciate your sensitivity in child rearing but a timeout isn’t going to work. There is no fucking corner to send her to. YOU”RE ON THE FUCKING BEACH! If need be get out the leg irons and duct tape and make sure those little brats don’t say or do anything. No, of course they can’t swim with the leg irons on…that’s the point isn’t it?
Hot Chick with a Dork – I hope to God that dork you're with was one of the original founders of Microsoft because if he isn’t there is something seriously amiss. I’m not Brad Pitt but the guy rubbing oil on your back looks like a partially shaved Spider monkey with glasses. You are a vision clad in tight swatches of polyester, with legs that are as long and smooth as a southern politician’s inaugural address speech but your sidekick looks like Don Knott’s fat twin brother. Am I missing something here? Personality makes up for a lot? It doesn’t make up for that much. This mother fucker has a deficit in ugly that can’t be made up with personality currency. And another thing, take that fucking tent down. No one uses a tent on the beach…oh, that’s not a tent pole? He’s just lying under his beach towel? Now I understand. Carry on…circus freak.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Hunter and his Attorney
Hunter S. Thompson and his attorney Oscar Acosta. This photo was shown on the back cover of the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Observations in Miniature: A Day at the Beach (Thanks Dave)
If you see yourself amongst these people at the beach it might be time to change your beach going ways.
Redneck Dad – Nice tan lines in the outline of a wife beater tank top. Do you mind paying attention to something other than the Nascar race on your portable television? Junior is out in the ocean floating in a cooler. Yep, there he goes over the horizon. No, Budweiser is not a food group. You must have been born without taste buds because that stuff tastes like the sweat rung out of a swami’s turban. Are you a science experiment gone bad? Because if I’m not mistaken you’re pregnant. You’re sitting in a lawn chair using your gut as a table with that 36 inch ham sub spread out on it. Oops, you dropped an olive in your belly button. And I beg of you when you finally do work your way up out of that industrial strength lawn chair pull up your fucking cut off blue jean shorts. The last thing I want to see is the plumber’s crack of what is perhaps the flattest ass I’ve ever seen in my life.
Wrinkled Sun Queen - It’s good you talked because you’re skin is so brown and wrinkled I thought you were a piece of drift wood and almost threw you on my fire. I’m sure you were something back before you baked yours skin like the crust of a tuna noodle casserole but now you look like the stick my dog just retrieved so stop winking at me. Do you really need that tin foil tanning thing under your neck? A Seagull flying overhead just dropped a pile of liquid shit on it and it went up in a poof of smoke when it hit. What do you think that thing is doing to your face? That’s it, smoke up, have another Virginia Slim, if you don’t get skin cancer you can always try for lung cancer. Everyone needs goals. No, I won’t rub tanning accelerator on your back. You’re skin is as dry as a prehistoric toilet paper and an errant ash from your cigarette might set you ablaze. And for God’s sake please stop fiddling with your bathing suit top I just caught a glimpse of one of your shriveled up tits and to my chagrin it looked like an over microwaved sweet potato.
Foreign Guy – Do you think your wife and daughters might be getting a little warm in those wool burkas? It’s about 90 degrees on the beach. Is that smoke coming out from under your wife’s burka? Is she smoking herring under there or has she begun to spontaneously combust? You’re a sadistic bastard foreign guy. You sit there and leer at women in bikinis while the females in your family sweat like Rush Limbaugh in a pastry shop. If they happen to glance at a guy in a bathing suit you curse under your breath in some language that sounds like a wounded dolphin begging for squid. What just fell out of your scraggily beard? Is that a Playgirl magazine? Because over here men that treat women like shit we generally suspect of hating them and of having some self loathing complex because of their repressed homosexuality. I’ve got an idea. If you don’t like the idea of women having the same rights as you go back to the sand box from which you were sprung. Really, we won’t miss you or your body odor. If you want to stay then move your fucking towel. You’re blocking my view of the hot babe in the thong and here’s a stick of deodorant. Get it? Got it? Good.
Big Lady Little Bikini - Okay, back up slowly and drop the slices of pizza. That’s it one at a time. Slowly. Keep your hands away from you mouth. That’s it. How did you get past beach security mam? I’m going to have to insist you bury yourself up to your neck in the sand. Yes, it’s the law. You’re so big that when you lie on your beach towel it looks like a washcloth. Is that a hard pretzel stuck between your rolls? Where is that little kid that was near you when you sat down? Do you hear those muffled cries for help? Dear God I hope you didn’t sit on him. Did a hermit crab take up residents in the cave that is your belly button? Because if I’m not mistaken I just saw an eyeball staring up at me from down there. You might not want to roll in the sand like that, it’s going to get stuck in your creases, get compacted, and when your toweling down a few years from now glassware might fall out. The next time you come to the beach please wear something a bit more sensible like a muumuu or a horse blanket with a head hole cut in it. I respect your desire to frolic in the sand and sun but could you move out of the way? I’m trying to see the ocean.
Lady Thong - Thong a long a ding dong. Yes, you are defying gravity. Newton is up in heaven with a boner. No, I can’t get up off my stomach at the moment…I have a cramp in my back? I dropped my wallet could you pick it up? Damn, I dropped it again. And again. And again…Let’s skip the small talk. How much will it cost me to remove your thong with my tongue? Ouch. Yes, you do hit hard. Your swimsuit isn’t constructed of enough material to make an eye patch for a squirrel. No, I’m not complaining. In fact I might trim a little off the sides if I were you. Are those breasts real? Because if you remove the nipples they'd look like something you might buy at a Tupperware party. No, I’m not complaining in fact I have an extensive Tupperware collection at home…hmm, this makes me look at Tupperware in a whole new light. I respect your desire to frolic in the sand and sun now could you please move directly in front of me? I don’t give a shit about the ocean.
Bermuda Beach Geezer - Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, Panama hat, slip on canvas geezer shoes, oversized blinder sunglasses, zinc oxide on nose, and black socks. Are you afraid that the sun will play connect the dots with your liver spots and turn you the shade of tobacco spit? For God’s sake take some off that thrift shop attire. Whoa, wait a minute put that shirt back on. You look like a plucked chicken that tried to take up weightlifting. Could you put out that five cent dog turd you’re trying to pass off as a cigar? The smoke from that thing just made a flock of seagulls drop from the sky. What the fuck do you think you’re going to find with that thirty foot long metal detector? Land mines? Napoleon’s Rolex? The Holy Grail? For God’s sake put that thing away it makes you look desperate. You’re eighty years old, enjoy your final days. I’m quite sure that with your pension, social security, 401 k, and veterans benefits you will be able to play all the golf you want and hit all the all-you-can-eat buffets you want before you run out of money and time. That’s it, toss that metal detector into the ocean. Don’t worry I’m pretty sure it’s biodegradable.
Redneck Dad – Nice tan lines in the outline of a wife beater tank top. Do you mind paying attention to something other than the Nascar race on your portable television? Junior is out in the ocean floating in a cooler. Yep, there he goes over the horizon. No, Budweiser is not a food group. You must have been born without taste buds because that stuff tastes like the sweat rung out of a swami’s turban. Are you a science experiment gone bad? Because if I’m not mistaken you’re pregnant. You’re sitting in a lawn chair using your gut as a table with that 36 inch ham sub spread out on it. Oops, you dropped an olive in your belly button. And I beg of you when you finally do work your way up out of that industrial strength lawn chair pull up your fucking cut off blue jean shorts. The last thing I want to see is the plumber’s crack of what is perhaps the flattest ass I’ve ever seen in my life.
Wrinkled Sun Queen - It’s good you talked because you’re skin is so brown and wrinkled I thought you were a piece of drift wood and almost threw you on my fire. I’m sure you were something back before you baked yours skin like the crust of a tuna noodle casserole but now you look like the stick my dog just retrieved so stop winking at me. Do you really need that tin foil tanning thing under your neck? A Seagull flying overhead just dropped a pile of liquid shit on it and it went up in a poof of smoke when it hit. What do you think that thing is doing to your face? That’s it, smoke up, have another Virginia Slim, if you don’t get skin cancer you can always try for lung cancer. Everyone needs goals. No, I won’t rub tanning accelerator on your back. You’re skin is as dry as a prehistoric toilet paper and an errant ash from your cigarette might set you ablaze. And for God’s sake please stop fiddling with your bathing suit top I just caught a glimpse of one of your shriveled up tits and to my chagrin it looked like an over microwaved sweet potato.
Foreign Guy – Do you think your wife and daughters might be getting a little warm in those wool burkas? It’s about 90 degrees on the beach. Is that smoke coming out from under your wife’s burka? Is she smoking herring under there or has she begun to spontaneously combust? You’re a sadistic bastard foreign guy. You sit there and leer at women in bikinis while the females in your family sweat like Rush Limbaugh in a pastry shop. If they happen to glance at a guy in a bathing suit you curse under your breath in some language that sounds like a wounded dolphin begging for squid. What just fell out of your scraggily beard? Is that a Playgirl magazine? Because over here men that treat women like shit we generally suspect of hating them and of having some self loathing complex because of their repressed homosexuality. I’ve got an idea. If you don’t like the idea of women having the same rights as you go back to the sand box from which you were sprung. Really, we won’t miss you or your body odor. If you want to stay then move your fucking towel. You’re blocking my view of the hot babe in the thong and here’s a stick of deodorant. Get it? Got it? Good.
Big Lady Little Bikini - Okay, back up slowly and drop the slices of pizza. That’s it one at a time. Slowly. Keep your hands away from you mouth. That’s it. How did you get past beach security mam? I’m going to have to insist you bury yourself up to your neck in the sand. Yes, it’s the law. You’re so big that when you lie on your beach towel it looks like a washcloth. Is that a hard pretzel stuck between your rolls? Where is that little kid that was near you when you sat down? Do you hear those muffled cries for help? Dear God I hope you didn’t sit on him. Did a hermit crab take up residents in the cave that is your belly button? Because if I’m not mistaken I just saw an eyeball staring up at me from down there. You might not want to roll in the sand like that, it’s going to get stuck in your creases, get compacted, and when your toweling down a few years from now glassware might fall out. The next time you come to the beach please wear something a bit more sensible like a muumuu or a horse blanket with a head hole cut in it. I respect your desire to frolic in the sand and sun but could you move out of the way? I’m trying to see the ocean.
Lady Thong - Thong a long a ding dong. Yes, you are defying gravity. Newton is up in heaven with a boner. No, I can’t get up off my stomach at the moment…I have a cramp in my back? I dropped my wallet could you pick it up? Damn, I dropped it again. And again. And again…Let’s skip the small talk. How much will it cost me to remove your thong with my tongue? Ouch. Yes, you do hit hard. Your swimsuit isn’t constructed of enough material to make an eye patch for a squirrel. No, I’m not complaining. In fact I might trim a little off the sides if I were you. Are those breasts real? Because if you remove the nipples they'd look like something you might buy at a Tupperware party. No, I’m not complaining in fact I have an extensive Tupperware collection at home…hmm, this makes me look at Tupperware in a whole new light. I respect your desire to frolic in the sand and sun now could you please move directly in front of me? I don’t give a shit about the ocean.
Bermuda Beach Geezer - Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, Panama hat, slip on canvas geezer shoes, oversized blinder sunglasses, zinc oxide on nose, and black socks. Are you afraid that the sun will play connect the dots with your liver spots and turn you the shade of tobacco spit? For God’s sake take some off that thrift shop attire. Whoa, wait a minute put that shirt back on. You look like a plucked chicken that tried to take up weightlifting. Could you put out that five cent dog turd you’re trying to pass off as a cigar? The smoke from that thing just made a flock of seagulls drop from the sky. What the fuck do you think you’re going to find with that thirty foot long metal detector? Land mines? Napoleon’s Rolex? The Holy Grail? For God’s sake put that thing away it makes you look desperate. You’re eighty years old, enjoy your final days. I’m quite sure that with your pension, social security, 401 k, and veterans benefits you will be able to play all the golf you want and hit all the all-you-can-eat buffets you want before you run out of money and time. That’s it, toss that metal detector into the ocean. Don’t worry I’m pretty sure it’s biodegradable.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Goodbye Hunter RIP
Author Hunter S. Thompson Kills Himself
According to the AP Hunter S. Thompson commited suicide last night in his Aspen home. Thompson was 67 years old.
http://aolsvc.news.aol.com/celeb/article.adp?id=20050220234609990002
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/02/22/books/22appr.html?
According to the AP Hunter S. Thompson commited suicide last night in his Aspen home. Thompson was 67 years old.
http://aolsvc.news.aol.com/celeb/article.adp?id=20050220234609990002
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/02/22/books/22appr.html?
Friday, February 18, 2005
Observations in Miniature: People in the Grocery Store II
If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your shopping habits.
Foreign Guy - You still don’t get American grocery stores do you? What’s in you cart? Unfiltered Camels , Pepsi, some weird vegetable that looks like a shrub, frozen king crab legs? What the Hell are you going to do? Go home and feed your pet llama and walrus? You’re eating like you’re shopping in the bazaar in Iran for God’s sake. Food isn’t rationed here. Just look at all the fat people. Go back and load up on frozen pizzas and processed meats. And let me direct you to the shaving section so you can trim that five foot long mountain goat beard and while we‘re at it we‘ll drop by the deodorant aisle. You smell like you’re aging Blue Cheese under your armpits.
Pet Fanatic - Twelve pounds of cat litter. Check. Two ten pound bags of bird seed. Check. A twenty pound bag of peanuts for the squirrels. Check. Thirty-seven cans of Fancy Feast. Check. One six ounce cup of yogurt. Check. Wait a second where the Hell is the people food? What the fuck are you going to eat? Do you corral kittens into pet carriers and beef them up like veal then slaughter them and eat them in a tangy a yogurt sauce? This is what I am forced to deduce from the paltry amount of human food in your cart. And what the fuck is that on your shoulder? Is that macaw shit? That’s cool you carry your pet bird around on your shoulder but you’d better go hose down after you’re done. And do you purposely fill your purse with cat litter? Because it looks like one of your babies drop a kibble bomb on your organizer. It’s great that you love animals but what separates us from them is our ability to use soap and take showers. Get it? There’s enough cat hair on your sweater to knit a hat, scarf, and mittens for your niece. Please take a lint brush to yourself before you go out in public again.
The Weeble Family - Choo Choo. Look out here comes the Weeble family wobbling down the aisle with their train of overflowing carts. Are you even looking at what you’re throwing into your cart? Do you really need a ten gallon jar of pickle relish? Buying in bulk is acceptable when you’re preparing for a family reunion or if you run an orphanage but for God’s sake there’s only four people in your family and although their combined weight is equal to that of a mid-size SUV they will certainly survive without a gross of Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks. And a request to all things holy please stay away from the snack cake aisle. I think your son just dove into a display of Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Yes, there he is I saw his chocolate covered face come up for a breath and then he dove back into a heap of Twinkies. Is he backstroking through a shelf full of moon pies? You’re family has a problem and it has nothing to do with their pituitary glands. You simply eat too fucking much. That’s why you’ve spent a third of your life at the grocery store, a third of your life eating, and a third of your life reading tabloid newspapers on your reinforced toilet. Put back the groceries in two of those carts and you’ll subsist quite well on the remaining cart for a month or two.
The Wanderer (thanks Lori)- Did you do the brown acid at Woodstock? I’m almost done with my shopping and I keep passing you going the wrong way and in addition to causing traffic jams, which you are largely oblivious to, you seem to be standing in front of every damn item I want to buy. You stand there with this perplexed look on your face reading every piece of fine print on a jar of spaghetti sauce. There’s nothing in there but tomatoes, some salt and garlic. You’re not reading the Odyssey for God’s sake. Keep moving. You’ve been here for two hours and how many things do you have in your cart? Two? Here’s an idea. It’s going to be radical and might takes some time to adjust to but why not make a FUCKING GROCERY LIST! That way you won’t be wandering around for hours. And fill your damn cart up so you don’t have to come back every day. Grocery shopping is not Chess, there is no complicated strategy, except to buy fucking groceries. Sound simple? It is. Carry on.
Angry Cashier - Hi, how are you? Nothing. Why were you talking to the lady in front of me but now you won’t even talk to me? Did you just punch a hole through my box of Nutrigrain? Your anger is misplaced. I’m not “the man.” In fact I never even met “the man,” so please don’t throw my eggs. In case you haven’t noticed they don’t bounce. No, I don’t mind bagging my own groceries. Do you mind if I go out in the parking lot and let the air out of your tires? I don’t care if you’re a bitch on your own time but you work in a service industry and are paid to pretend you like me so we can complete our transaction in peace. So unclench the fists, lose the frown. That’s it. Feel better? No? Well, then fucking pretend.
Foreign Guy - You still don’t get American grocery stores do you? What’s in you cart? Unfiltered Camels , Pepsi, some weird vegetable that looks like a shrub, frozen king crab legs? What the Hell are you going to do? Go home and feed your pet llama and walrus? You’re eating like you’re shopping in the bazaar in Iran for God’s sake. Food isn’t rationed here. Just look at all the fat people. Go back and load up on frozen pizzas and processed meats. And let me direct you to the shaving section so you can trim that five foot long mountain goat beard and while we‘re at it we‘ll drop by the deodorant aisle. You smell like you’re aging Blue Cheese under your armpits.
Pet Fanatic - Twelve pounds of cat litter. Check. Two ten pound bags of bird seed. Check. A twenty pound bag of peanuts for the squirrels. Check. Thirty-seven cans of Fancy Feast. Check. One six ounce cup of yogurt. Check. Wait a second where the Hell is the people food? What the fuck are you going to eat? Do you corral kittens into pet carriers and beef them up like veal then slaughter them and eat them in a tangy a yogurt sauce? This is what I am forced to deduce from the paltry amount of human food in your cart. And what the fuck is that on your shoulder? Is that macaw shit? That’s cool you carry your pet bird around on your shoulder but you’d better go hose down after you’re done. And do you purposely fill your purse with cat litter? Because it looks like one of your babies drop a kibble bomb on your organizer. It’s great that you love animals but what separates us from them is our ability to use soap and take showers. Get it? There’s enough cat hair on your sweater to knit a hat, scarf, and mittens for your niece. Please take a lint brush to yourself before you go out in public again.
The Weeble Family - Choo Choo. Look out here comes the Weeble family wobbling down the aisle with their train of overflowing carts. Are you even looking at what you’re throwing into your cart? Do you really need a ten gallon jar of pickle relish? Buying in bulk is acceptable when you’re preparing for a family reunion or if you run an orphanage but for God’s sake there’s only four people in your family and although their combined weight is equal to that of a mid-size SUV they will certainly survive without a gross of Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks. And a request to all things holy please stay away from the snack cake aisle. I think your son just dove into a display of Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Yes, there he is I saw his chocolate covered face come up for a breath and then he dove back into a heap of Twinkies. Is he backstroking through a shelf full of moon pies? You’re family has a problem and it has nothing to do with their pituitary glands. You simply eat too fucking much. That’s why you’ve spent a third of your life at the grocery store, a third of your life eating, and a third of your life reading tabloid newspapers on your reinforced toilet. Put back the groceries in two of those carts and you’ll subsist quite well on the remaining cart for a month or two.
The Wanderer (thanks Lori)- Did you do the brown acid at Woodstock? I’m almost done with my shopping and I keep passing you going the wrong way and in addition to causing traffic jams, which you are largely oblivious to, you seem to be standing in front of every damn item I want to buy. You stand there with this perplexed look on your face reading every piece of fine print on a jar of spaghetti sauce. There’s nothing in there but tomatoes, some salt and garlic. You’re not reading the Odyssey for God’s sake. Keep moving. You’ve been here for two hours and how many things do you have in your cart? Two? Here’s an idea. It’s going to be radical and might takes some time to adjust to but why not make a FUCKING GROCERY LIST! That way you won’t be wandering around for hours. And fill your damn cart up so you don’t have to come back every day. Grocery shopping is not Chess, there is no complicated strategy, except to buy fucking groceries. Sound simple? It is. Carry on.
Angry Cashier - Hi, how are you? Nothing. Why were you talking to the lady in front of me but now you won’t even talk to me? Did you just punch a hole through my box of Nutrigrain? Your anger is misplaced. I’m not “the man.” In fact I never even met “the man,” so please don’t throw my eggs. In case you haven’t noticed they don’t bounce. No, I don’t mind bagging my own groceries. Do you mind if I go out in the parking lot and let the air out of your tires? I don’t care if you’re a bitch on your own time but you work in a service industry and are paid to pretend you like me so we can complete our transaction in peace. So unclench the fists, lose the frown. That’s it. Feel better? No? Well, then fucking pretend.
Oh no W not again
"If you see a train wreck coming, you ought to be saying, what are you going to do about it, Mr. Congressman, or Madam Congressman?"
Actual George W. Bush quote, Detroit, February, 2005
From Rolling Stone
Actual George W. Bush quote, Detroit, February, 2005
From Rolling Stone
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Monday, February 14, 2005
Observations in Miniature: People in the Grocery Store
If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your shopping habits.
Bachelor Shopper– Chunky Steak & Potato Soup, Quaker Made Sandwich Steaks, Oscar Mayer Bacon, Frank’s RedHot hot sauce, Cheese Whiz, Wonder Bread, Ball Park Franks, Cheetos, Jiff. Can you say heart attack? No wonder you’re skin is the shade of a dead dolphin. What are you going to do with that bunt cake have a personal tea party? Put that the fuck down and go get some fruit and vegetables. Have you ever heard of fiber? Are you trying to get prostate cancer? No, bacon is not a food group. Are you following Fat Albert’s recommended nutritional guidelines? No wonder men die younger than women. Here’s a clue. The reason your sweat smells like bologna, your BP is 190 over 210, and your depressed is because you’re ingesting enough chemicals, fat and sodium to fell a rhino. Respect yourself. Put down the king sized container of sour cream dip and pick up a container of yogurt. That’s it. Feel that strange sensation in your heart? That’s blood actually working its way through your arteries.
Frantic Snow Storm Shopper – Are you running a home for wayward boys? No? It’s just you, your husband and two children. Then why the fuck did you just buy seven loaves of bread, eight cartons of eggs, and five gallons of milk? Do you subsist solely on French Toast? No? In case you just rolled out of a time machine let me let you in on a little secret. No one in the United States has died of starvation in the last fifty years because they were snowed in. You’re being greedy. A snow storm is not a nuclear holocaust you will be able to emerge from your living room bunker within the next day or two. So, if you really need it buy one loaf of bread, one carton of eggs and one gallon of milk and leave some for other people like me. My grocery shopping day just happens to fall the day before the big ½ inch of projected snowfall and I really am out of groceries. Thank-you for being so courteous.
Coupon Cocksucker – What’s in that briefcase stacked on top of your overflowing cart of groceries? Oh dear God you have coupons wrapped like one hundred dollar bills and they are filling the entire briefcase. I’m trapped in line. There are two people lined up behind me. I’ll be here until the next Super Bowl. What? You say you’re thrifty. No, you’re just annoying. You bought 32 gallons of orange juice and saved fifty cents? I’m relieved you won’t be getting scurvy but if you buy the store brand you will save even more and I won’t have to wait for eons behind you in the checkout line. Let’s be logical and break this down. Coupons, for the most part, entice you to buy shit you wouldn’t have bought in the first place. It’s a marketing ploy. Oh, here’s a coupon for Grandma Remmy’s fried cow testicles. I’d never normally eat them but they’re on sale so I bought six jars. Do you get it? You’re not really saving money! You’re spending money on shit you don’t need because there is a coupon for it! So, have we learned our economic lesson for the day? Good, because since you opened your briefcase of coupons Haley’s Comet just flew by again.
Senior Shoppers – It’s nice to get out of the retirement village and shuffle around during the busiest store hours of the shopping day isn’t it? I have only one question for you. What the fuck were you doing all day long while I was at work! You can’t tell me that bingo and shuffle board took eight hours. Did you just stand and line at the deli for ten minutes hemming and hawing over buying one piece of fucking lunch meat? What are you going to do with that? Slice it up four ways and have a dinner party? Here’s a clue. Buy several pieces of lunch meat then you won’t have to come back to the grocery store every day and won’t be in my way every time I try to push my cart down an aisle. And to the old men specifically, stop fucking flirting with the checkout girls you’re wasting my time and theirs. I don’t give a fuck what Twilight Zone episode you live in you are not going to get to check your rejuvenated Viagra wood out on that eighteen year old checkout girl. Are we clear? Good. Now get in your cart. I’ll push you out to your fifty foot long Cadillac.
Oblivious Mother with Kid in Cart – Hello, earth to mother. Does little Satan want another box of Oreo Cookies dipped in chocolate? Is that what he’s whining about? I have an idea MOVE YOUR FUCKING CART! You don’t need to park sideways across the cracker and cookie aisle. There’s something going on outside that microcosm that is your world and it’s called me trying to get my cart past you so I can get done with my shopping. And another thing. After you get done pulling Hell child off the candy rack in the checkout line, which takes a good ten or fifteen minutes to wrench the Snickers bars and M&M’s from his fists, don’t write a fucking check. Wake up. No one uses checks anymore. Get a fucking check card because inevitably there will be a problem with your check and I will be waiting behind you as the beast that has sprung form your loins sticks his tongue out at me and screams like a cat with its tale caught in a garbage disposal. You’re right my hair is thinning but my patience are wearing even thinner so if you want to be around to see Beelzebub graduate from prison boot camp I suggest you use cash next time.
Sally Wheatgrass (AKA the Overdone Vegetarian lady) - No, don’t stand up in the back of your cart; your pencil thin legs might go right through the grating. Is there any meat in that cart underneath all that foliage? No, soy nuggets are not a mammal. If it didn’t have a tail it doesn’t qualify. You won’t eat anything with milk or eggs in it because it’s murder? Oh, right I forgot I watched an episode of Beasts on the Savannah last week and they showed a loaf of Wonder Bread running from a pack of hyenas. Okay, you’ve taken this hippie Hindu reincarnation shit too far and it’s abundantly clear from your anemic complexion and spindly limbs that you need the advice of a doctor. As an unlicensed physician I recommend ingesting 10 cc’s of lard, preferably hydrogenated beef fat, and to wrap yourself in ten pounds of cooked bacon and olive loaf overnight. Thos canines in your mouth are there for a reason and it is not to viciously tear at lettuce leaves. Your ancestors’ brains grew because they were able to gradually consume more protein, thus improving their hunting skills and their intellectual capacity for preparing meat in tangy sauces. Get it Sally Wheatgrass? Good. Now, join hands with Colonel Sanders and repeat after me: Protein is not my enemy. It is my friend. If the Hindus are right and I did just eat my dead uncle's soul in that bucket of KFC then so what? He tasted like chicken and will come back as something else very soon.
Bachelor Shopper– Chunky Steak & Potato Soup, Quaker Made Sandwich Steaks, Oscar Mayer Bacon, Frank’s RedHot hot sauce, Cheese Whiz, Wonder Bread, Ball Park Franks, Cheetos, Jiff. Can you say heart attack? No wonder you’re skin is the shade of a dead dolphin. What are you going to do with that bunt cake have a personal tea party? Put that the fuck down and go get some fruit and vegetables. Have you ever heard of fiber? Are you trying to get prostate cancer? No, bacon is not a food group. Are you following Fat Albert’s recommended nutritional guidelines? No wonder men die younger than women. Here’s a clue. The reason your sweat smells like bologna, your BP is 190 over 210, and your depressed is because you’re ingesting enough chemicals, fat and sodium to fell a rhino. Respect yourself. Put down the king sized container of sour cream dip and pick up a container of yogurt. That’s it. Feel that strange sensation in your heart? That’s blood actually working its way through your arteries.
Frantic Snow Storm Shopper – Are you running a home for wayward boys? No? It’s just you, your husband and two children. Then why the fuck did you just buy seven loaves of bread, eight cartons of eggs, and five gallons of milk? Do you subsist solely on French Toast? No? In case you just rolled out of a time machine let me let you in on a little secret. No one in the United States has died of starvation in the last fifty years because they were snowed in. You’re being greedy. A snow storm is not a nuclear holocaust you will be able to emerge from your living room bunker within the next day or two. So, if you really need it buy one loaf of bread, one carton of eggs and one gallon of milk and leave some for other people like me. My grocery shopping day just happens to fall the day before the big ½ inch of projected snowfall and I really am out of groceries. Thank-you for being so courteous.
Coupon Cocksucker – What’s in that briefcase stacked on top of your overflowing cart of groceries? Oh dear God you have coupons wrapped like one hundred dollar bills and they are filling the entire briefcase. I’m trapped in line. There are two people lined up behind me. I’ll be here until the next Super Bowl. What? You say you’re thrifty. No, you’re just annoying. You bought 32 gallons of orange juice and saved fifty cents? I’m relieved you won’t be getting scurvy but if you buy the store brand you will save even more and I won’t have to wait for eons behind you in the checkout line. Let’s be logical and break this down. Coupons, for the most part, entice you to buy shit you wouldn’t have bought in the first place. It’s a marketing ploy. Oh, here’s a coupon for Grandma Remmy’s fried cow testicles. I’d never normally eat them but they’re on sale so I bought six jars. Do you get it? You’re not really saving money! You’re spending money on shit you don’t need because there is a coupon for it! So, have we learned our economic lesson for the day? Good, because since you opened your briefcase of coupons Haley’s Comet just flew by again.
Senior Shoppers – It’s nice to get out of the retirement village and shuffle around during the busiest store hours of the shopping day isn’t it? I have only one question for you. What the fuck were you doing all day long while I was at work! You can’t tell me that bingo and shuffle board took eight hours. Did you just stand and line at the deli for ten minutes hemming and hawing over buying one piece of fucking lunch meat? What are you going to do with that? Slice it up four ways and have a dinner party? Here’s a clue. Buy several pieces of lunch meat then you won’t have to come back to the grocery store every day and won’t be in my way every time I try to push my cart down an aisle. And to the old men specifically, stop fucking flirting with the checkout girls you’re wasting my time and theirs. I don’t give a fuck what Twilight Zone episode you live in you are not going to get to check your rejuvenated Viagra wood out on that eighteen year old checkout girl. Are we clear? Good. Now get in your cart. I’ll push you out to your fifty foot long Cadillac.
Oblivious Mother with Kid in Cart – Hello, earth to mother. Does little Satan want another box of Oreo Cookies dipped in chocolate? Is that what he’s whining about? I have an idea MOVE YOUR FUCKING CART! You don’t need to park sideways across the cracker and cookie aisle. There’s something going on outside that microcosm that is your world and it’s called me trying to get my cart past you so I can get done with my shopping. And another thing. After you get done pulling Hell child off the candy rack in the checkout line, which takes a good ten or fifteen minutes to wrench the Snickers bars and M&M’s from his fists, don’t write a fucking check. Wake up. No one uses checks anymore. Get a fucking check card because inevitably there will be a problem with your check and I will be waiting behind you as the beast that has sprung form your loins sticks his tongue out at me and screams like a cat with its tale caught in a garbage disposal. You’re right my hair is thinning but my patience are wearing even thinner so if you want to be around to see Beelzebub graduate from prison boot camp I suggest you use cash next time.
Sally Wheatgrass (AKA the Overdone Vegetarian lady) - No, don’t stand up in the back of your cart; your pencil thin legs might go right through the grating. Is there any meat in that cart underneath all that foliage? No, soy nuggets are not a mammal. If it didn’t have a tail it doesn’t qualify. You won’t eat anything with milk or eggs in it because it’s murder? Oh, right I forgot I watched an episode of Beasts on the Savannah last week and they showed a loaf of Wonder Bread running from a pack of hyenas. Okay, you’ve taken this hippie Hindu reincarnation shit too far and it’s abundantly clear from your anemic complexion and spindly limbs that you need the advice of a doctor. As an unlicensed physician I recommend ingesting 10 cc’s of lard, preferably hydrogenated beef fat, and to wrap yourself in ten pounds of cooked bacon and olive loaf overnight. Thos canines in your mouth are there for a reason and it is not to viciously tear at lettuce leaves. Your ancestors’ brains grew because they were able to gradually consume more protein, thus improving their hunting skills and their intellectual capacity for preparing meat in tangy sauces. Get it Sally Wheatgrass? Good. Now, join hands with Colonel Sanders and repeat after me: Protein is not my enemy. It is my friend. If the Hindus are right and I did just eat my dead uncle's soul in that bucket of KFC then so what? He tasted like chicken and will come back as something else very soon.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
AMENDMENT I
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.
I read a disturbing article in USA Today by Greg Toppo entitled: U.S. students say press freedoms go too far. The article stated that in a survey of 112,003 high school students surveyed that 'One in three U.S. high school students say the press ought to be more restricted, and even more say the government should approve newspaper stories before readers see them.'
The article goes on to say that, 'The findings aren't surprising to Jack Dvorak, director of the High School Journalism Institute at Indiana University in Bloomington. "Even professional journalists are often unaware of a lot of the freedoms that might be associated with the First Amendment," he says.
The survey "confirms what a lot of people who are interested in this area have known for a long time," he says: Kids aren't learning enough about the First Amendment in history, civics or English classes. It also tracks closely with recent findings of adults' attitudes.
"It's part of our Constitution, so this should be part of a formal education," says Dvorak, who has worked with student journalists since 1968.
Ah, the bliss of ignorance as doctrined by the Bush adminstration. If people were better informed and not manipulated by conservative framing would the election have been as close as it was? I seriously doubt it. As the state of US public education continues to dwindle so does the collective awareness of our rights as its citizens. Educate yourselves. Don't count on the Bush administration to educate you or one day you will wake up and there will be an amendment to the 1st amendement. They will claim it was introduced to protect you and if you don't know any better you will believe it until you are thrown in jail for writing on your blog that George W. Bush is a cock sucker.
What I found encouraging was that 51% of these kids say that newspapers 'should be able to publish freely.' This is a mandate for the future of this country, much more so than the 'mandate' George W. Bush's claimed after this election. Ignorance breeds ignorance and the resulting lineage is an incestuous family tree that needs to be chopped down. Stay educated. Stay free.
For the full article go to: http://www.usatoday.com/news/education/2005-01-30-students-press_x.htm
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.
I read a disturbing article in USA Today by Greg Toppo entitled: U.S. students say press freedoms go too far. The article stated that in a survey of 112,003 high school students surveyed that 'One in three U.S. high school students say the press ought to be more restricted, and even more say the government should approve newspaper stories before readers see them.'
The article goes on to say that, 'The findings aren't surprising to Jack Dvorak, director of the High School Journalism Institute at Indiana University in Bloomington. "Even professional journalists are often unaware of a lot of the freedoms that might be associated with the First Amendment," he says.
The survey "confirms what a lot of people who are interested in this area have known for a long time," he says: Kids aren't learning enough about the First Amendment in history, civics or English classes. It also tracks closely with recent findings of adults' attitudes.
"It's part of our Constitution, so this should be part of a formal education," says Dvorak, who has worked with student journalists since 1968.
Ah, the bliss of ignorance as doctrined by the Bush adminstration. If people were better informed and not manipulated by conservative framing would the election have been as close as it was? I seriously doubt it. As the state of US public education continues to dwindle so does the collective awareness of our rights as its citizens. Educate yourselves. Don't count on the Bush administration to educate you or one day you will wake up and there will be an amendment to the 1st amendement. They will claim it was introduced to protect you and if you don't know any better you will believe it until you are thrown in jail for writing on your blog that George W. Bush is a cock sucker.
What I found encouraging was that 51% of these kids say that newspapers 'should be able to publish freely.' This is a mandate for the future of this country, much more so than the 'mandate' George W. Bush's claimed after this election. Ignorance breeds ignorance and the resulting lineage is an incestuous family tree that needs to be chopped down. Stay educated. Stay free.
For the full article go to: http://www.usatoday.com/news/education/2005-01-30-students-press_x.htm
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?
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Observations in Miniature: Different Drivers
If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your driving habits.
Granny Driver – If the only part of your body that I can see when I’m behind you is your knuckles on the steering wheel and the floral arrangement on your hat then you might be too shriveled and old to drive. The lines on the road are there for a reason. Your car is not a pinball that can careen happily back and forth over three lanes hitting the guard rails and bouncing back into traffic. Here’s a clue, that 1962 decommissioned aircraft carrier on wheels without power steering that you drive and can’t seem to control needs to be dry docked, yes, sent to that great resting place for over the hill vessels and stripped down and the excess scrap metal used to build a wing on the new children’s hospital. I’m sure you make great cookies and someone out there loves their granny but the fact is that you’re a horrible fucking driver and I’d feel a lot safer with you behind a pair of knitting needles than the wheel of a car.
Middle Aged Corvette Guy – I don’t know what’s shinier the bold spot on your head or the wax job on your cherry red Corvette. For God’s sake button up your shirt, I could stuff three throw pillows with all the chest hair hanging out of it. And that gold chain with the medallion on it that’s blowing up in your face in the wind isn’t helping matters, it makes you look like a retired porn star. Do you feel the need for speed? Are you randy from the Viagra cocktail you just ingested with the Bloody Mary? Here’s a clue you aren’t going to hook up with a hot 21 year old babe no matter how much pheromone cologne you douse yourself with so stop cursing night clubs and start cruising the retirement village, the women there, many of whom use walkers, won’t be able to run away from you like everyone else does.
Monster Truck Guy – Yeah, Mopar, I get it you’re car part savvy. Nice decal of a guy peeing on the window on the back of your cab. How original, a W 04 and an American Flag bumper sticker on your tailgate. You have a lot in common with George Bush don’t you? Do you guys get together and discuss how getting rid of the dividend tax has allowed you to expand your investment portfolio? Oh, you don’t have an investment portfolio? Stupid me. When it’s snowing out and you pass me going 75 mph do you really think that even with your 40 inch super knobby tires you are going to be able stop on a sheet of ice? No? So, slow the fuck down because the person you hit could be me and if you do I sincerely hope you kill me because if you don’t I’m going to get out and strangle you with that stupid Rebel flag hanging in the window of your cab.
Sports Car Punk - You are not Vin Diesel and no matter how many fins and pieces of plastic you super glue to your Honda Accord it will never be a Ferrari. And yes, I am giving you a dirty look. You just passed me doing 125 mph in your tuna can on wheels and nearly ran me off the road. You are not playing a video game and the world isn’t out to get you, that’s the carbon monoxide talking, which is leaking into your car from that loud muffler you “self-installed” on your car. Here’s a clue, instead of working 60 hours a week to buy new accessories for your $2000 dollar car why don’t you study and get good grades, go to college, and then become something? Then you really will be able to buy a Ferrari and will become something else other than a pain in my ass whenever I drive through the Giant parking lot.
Seat too far back guy – Does your car have a front seat home slice? Why does it look like you’re driving sitting in the back seat? Are you wearing stilts so you can touch the gas pedal and breaks? Take your feet off the dashboard, you might need them to stop your car and turn down the fucking bass on your stereo, my coffee cup just vibrated out of its holder. I get it, you’re laid back, too cool for the front seat, there’s a bigger party going on in the back seat, but you’re not really driving your car are you? You’re improvising, lunging forward when you need to stop and straining like a mother fucker to even get the tips of your fingers to touch the steering wheel. Improvising is fine in Jazz or even when your boat is leaking and you plug the hole with a hotdog roll but when you’re driving it can be deadly so be a big boy and move up to the front seat so we all feel a little safer on the road.
Minivan Momma –Your days of driving like a maniac were over the day junior’s umbilical cord was cut so don’t try to pass me with twelve kids in that underpowered three cylinder minivan from 1985, you’re just going to sit in the passing lane unable to build up enough speed to beat the old guy on the side of the road in a wheelchair. You didn’t just cut me off and then flip me the finger did you? Calm down, try to show some restraint in front of the horde, I’m not trying to beat you to Chucky Cheese, there will still be pizza there if you’re ten minutes late. And please put some clothing on, you’re not Hugh Hefner, stop wearing your pajamas when you’re running around town, coupled with your unkempt appearance you look like a deranged circus clown. Be careful and remember the little ones in the back of your minivan are the future of our country…God help us...
Granny Driver – If the only part of your body that I can see when I’m behind you is your knuckles on the steering wheel and the floral arrangement on your hat then you might be too shriveled and old to drive. The lines on the road are there for a reason. Your car is not a pinball that can careen happily back and forth over three lanes hitting the guard rails and bouncing back into traffic. Here’s a clue, that 1962 decommissioned aircraft carrier on wheels without power steering that you drive and can’t seem to control needs to be dry docked, yes, sent to that great resting place for over the hill vessels and stripped down and the excess scrap metal used to build a wing on the new children’s hospital. I’m sure you make great cookies and someone out there loves their granny but the fact is that you’re a horrible fucking driver and I’d feel a lot safer with you behind a pair of knitting needles than the wheel of a car.
Middle Aged Corvette Guy – I don’t know what’s shinier the bold spot on your head or the wax job on your cherry red Corvette. For God’s sake button up your shirt, I could stuff three throw pillows with all the chest hair hanging out of it. And that gold chain with the medallion on it that’s blowing up in your face in the wind isn’t helping matters, it makes you look like a retired porn star. Do you feel the need for speed? Are you randy from the Viagra cocktail you just ingested with the Bloody Mary? Here’s a clue you aren’t going to hook up with a hot 21 year old babe no matter how much pheromone cologne you douse yourself with so stop cursing night clubs and start cruising the retirement village, the women there, many of whom use walkers, won’t be able to run away from you like everyone else does.
Monster Truck Guy – Yeah, Mopar, I get it you’re car part savvy. Nice decal of a guy peeing on the window on the back of your cab. How original, a W 04 and an American Flag bumper sticker on your tailgate. You have a lot in common with George Bush don’t you? Do you guys get together and discuss how getting rid of the dividend tax has allowed you to expand your investment portfolio? Oh, you don’t have an investment portfolio? Stupid me. When it’s snowing out and you pass me going 75 mph do you really think that even with your 40 inch super knobby tires you are going to be able stop on a sheet of ice? No? So, slow the fuck down because the person you hit could be me and if you do I sincerely hope you kill me because if you don’t I’m going to get out and strangle you with that stupid Rebel flag hanging in the window of your cab.
Sports Car Punk - You are not Vin Diesel and no matter how many fins and pieces of plastic you super glue to your Honda Accord it will never be a Ferrari. And yes, I am giving you a dirty look. You just passed me doing 125 mph in your tuna can on wheels and nearly ran me off the road. You are not playing a video game and the world isn’t out to get you, that’s the carbon monoxide talking, which is leaking into your car from that loud muffler you “self-installed” on your car. Here’s a clue, instead of working 60 hours a week to buy new accessories for your $2000 dollar car why don’t you study and get good grades, go to college, and then become something? Then you really will be able to buy a Ferrari and will become something else other than a pain in my ass whenever I drive through the Giant parking lot.
Seat too far back guy – Does your car have a front seat home slice? Why does it look like you’re driving sitting in the back seat? Are you wearing stilts so you can touch the gas pedal and breaks? Take your feet off the dashboard, you might need them to stop your car and turn down the fucking bass on your stereo, my coffee cup just vibrated out of its holder. I get it, you’re laid back, too cool for the front seat, there’s a bigger party going on in the back seat, but you’re not really driving your car are you? You’re improvising, lunging forward when you need to stop and straining like a mother fucker to even get the tips of your fingers to touch the steering wheel. Improvising is fine in Jazz or even when your boat is leaking and you plug the hole with a hotdog roll but when you’re driving it can be deadly so be a big boy and move up to the front seat so we all feel a little safer on the road.
Minivan Momma –Your days of driving like a maniac were over the day junior’s umbilical cord was cut so don’t try to pass me with twelve kids in that underpowered three cylinder minivan from 1985, you’re just going to sit in the passing lane unable to build up enough speed to beat the old guy on the side of the road in a wheelchair. You didn’t just cut me off and then flip me the finger did you? Calm down, try to show some restraint in front of the horde, I’m not trying to beat you to Chucky Cheese, there will still be pizza there if you’re ten minutes late. And please put some clothing on, you’re not Hugh Hefner, stop wearing your pajamas when you’re running around town, coupled with your unkempt appearance you look like a deranged circus clown. Be careful and remember the little ones in the back of your minivan are the future of our country…God help us...
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