Dear You,
Sure I have time. I have time for lots of things. Reading, learning, evolving, despising....take your pick. To answer your question, I DO have a sec, but I don't really want to give it to you. I apologize in advance for not caring, but as you walked by me several times this morning, attempting to work up the courage to start this story, I could sense that if you did get the gall to tell me your story, even you would be bored senseless. Up until this point, I appreciate your ability to withhold your monotonous diatribe about Lord knows what through the lisp of broken teeth. But now you have crossed the line. You asked me how I was doing, and by doing so you have given me the option of being honest. A large list of replies has come to mind, all of which would normally get a fist to my face by just about anyone else but you.
Am I interested in your story? To put it bluntly, no. If that is hard to understand, let me ask you this. Are you interested in animal husbandry, the mating habits of the aardvark, or dating the Olsen twins? If you answered yes to any of those, I feel for you on so many levels, I cannot even begin to tell you how sorry I am. As excited as you are to have another human being listen to you discuss your wireless bandwidth, I am as excited to listen to it as I am to be cathed by Triple H. I want to feign interest in your life as bad as Angelina Jolie wants breast cancer. Unfortunately, I cannot remove you prophylactically without going to jail but that doesn't make you any less of a tumor in my life. You are like a scab that won't heal or a zit on my forehead at age 40. I don't know why you are here right now. It surely is not because I appear to care. If there was ever a time for an act of God, now would be it.
So as you take a breath before you start you next line of bullshit, let me just stop you and say, fuck off. I do not believe you are getting paid to discuss Dungeons and Dragons with me, there will be no D&D focus group because 10-year olds aren't allowed in the plant. I don't want to hear about how you are the first person in the Western United States to get 10GB/sec download speed wifi on your iPhone 10. That phone doesn't exist and I know for a fact your trailer's metal skirting would interfere with the reception on something as massive as 10 gigs. As much as I can appreciate you finally wanting to get your driver's license so you can save money by not taking public transportation, stop waiting for me to verbalize my accolades to you for said achievement. You will be waiting a long time before I say "nice job for seeking personal growth." No offense, but people don't start driving at your age, they retire. I suppose it is easier to pack your Legos in the trunk of your own car for both storage and transport than it is in an ABC Taxi Service vehicle. I am hesitant, however, to drive on the same roads as you since driving is mostly common sense and you demonstrate your grasp of common sense as well as Lindsay Lohan demonstrates sobriety. Pardon me if I question your desire to operate a big piece of metal. The cabbie might not be from around here, may not have a GED equivalent, and might even have a felony or two on his record, but at least he has experience. Some things are best being left for other people to do.
In conclusion, I propose we play a game. Imagine I just said that like the dude from Saw because the outcome, at least in my mind, is very similar. Let's pretend I am not here. Since you are into fantasy shit, assume I have my invisibility cloak on and I have level 35 mage skills. Pretend I can vaporize you speaking elven. Whatever it is that makes you avoid me like you avoid personal hygiene....do THAT. I will be happier and that is the important part in this scenario. I hate to pull rank on you....but level 35 mages trump level 8 elves every day of the week and twice on Sunday. It's been 30 years since I played Dungeons and Dragons, but even I know that.
Sincerely,
Me
Friday, June 21, 2013
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Me and the Gym
I have this love/hate relationship with the gym. I know I need to go. I am paying for it whether I go or not. I understand the physiological and psychological benefits of working out. However, it's a struggle. Even recently, as I have become somewhat of a health fanatic. It isn't so much the movement I dislike, rather it is the people I encounter when I get there. I don't mind the drive over to the gym which is fairly close. There is always equipment available. It smells clean, looks clean....from the outside looking in on this story, it is a little like Heaven....really. Until you encounter the front desk. After the card scan, it really does go down hill from there.
I am a people person, but I am NOT an everyone person. NO ONE loves their job, or gives the impression of absolute job satisfaction like Gold's Gym customer service people do. I am usually accosted by 2-3 Stepford Wife-looking girls, twenty somethings that have not seen whole food since they applied. I usually walk in with iPod earbuds in place as to not have to listen to the verbal vomit that accompanies me handing my keys over. "Ready for a great workout today?" **BEEP**, their lifeless hands giving me my keys back. No....no I am not. I am actually here to try on the bandana you guys call a tank top. Maybe a speedo or two. Or maybe spend a small fortune on one of your smoothies that will make me see God 8 seconds after the first gulp. Oh, it helps with male stamina and virility? Awesome! Give me two so I can go home and lock my wife in the Red Room and we can pick a new safe word. "Does this polo shirt make me look fat?" Lady, the last time you were fat, the doctor was cleaning the cheese off your face just after birth. Ever since then, your organs are as protected as the yolk in an egg dropped from 30,000 feet. If I go get you a #1 with cheese across the street, will stop talking to me like you give a shit? Yes, my mind is busy during and after the card scan. Bear with me, it gets more annoying.
As if walking into the place wasn't shitty enough, I do my cardio activity in the cardio theater. It's not that I want to avoid all of the short shorts, sleeveless shirts and pedophiles that frequent the social area. I would just rather sweat in the dark, without someone leering next to me wanting to discuss the rapid endorphin release caused by climbing 600 flights of stairs. I get it. You climbed th Empire State building twice. Bra-fucking-vo. That is awesome for you. You're done. "I have so much weight to lose." Really? You still shop at Baby Gap...and you are what, 30? As awesome as it is to be able to wear your kids clothes still, a sweaty camel toe, despite popular men's magazines stating otherwise, is not attractive. If I can see your anatomy, while you towel down, it isn't pretty....ever. Call me old....call me gay....call me blind. Listen, I can appreciate a healthy body, male or female. But shut the fuck about it. Even when you aren't talking about it, how you walk, how you stand, and what you are wearing screams I HAVE DADDY ISSUES! All the fucking steps in the world are not going to make him love you. If you wear spankies and a sports bra...I hate you without you ever speaking a word. You reek of insecurity, even though your outward appearance says you have some semblance of confidence.
At the same time I look to the right and see sweaty snatch, I can usually look to the left and see a plethora of TRAINER shirts helping the morbidly obese find happiness. They do so, however, looking around, advertising the fact they hate their life because they have to help someone who has not helped themselves. They are snooty...100% of the time. I am sure there are some really cool trainers that have found a passion for helping people, but I haven't see one of those people yet. I could be portrayed as bitter, but these people, tasked to help others find happiness, prove to me every time I go that being skinny does not make you happy. neither do white teeth and 2T shorts, apparently. I imagine that there is this sense of accomplishment watching other people sweat, but I do not see any one of these trainers solving the problem at its core. Hell, there is no money in prevention. I think the best thing they can do is help these people so much that they never see them again. I get looks from these trainers like "you reallllllly need to be over here with us." Yeah? That is as likely to happen as me Googling "STARR JONES NAKED." I like hearing some skinny asshole tell me "just one more rep" as much as women want to hear from their prom date "aw c'mon....just the tip." So, as you peer at me through your beady fucking eyes and give me the fake smile that is meant to say "I am so glad you came in today, fatass," remember that, despite my outward appearance, I am much happier than you. Even though this post indicates otherwise.
I love your crotch rocket. It's sunny, warm, and the fact you roll it up to the bike racks to park on the sidewalk, as if to say "I FUCKING ARRIVED" is....how do they say it in France? Fucking stupid. Yup, you got your weight belt, your gym bag full of what I am not sure since you rolled up ready to go and your sunglasses, the HOOTERS lanyard with your keys....you are a walking billboard of health and wellness. Have you ever just watched these people walk in to a Gold's Gym? I have. It's great. The ONLY plan they have when they walk in is to attempt to set the record for the most eyes on them in 10 seconds. Then they walk over and sit on the couch, pull out there phone to undoubtedly check in on Facebook "at the Gym, getting my sweat on - At Gold's Gym, Richland, WA." Then they text....who knows who to make plans for afterwards. Then they stand up and stretch, check their phone again, look around and count the eyes. Over to the free weights they go for a testosterone flex-fest. I can't remember the last time someone asked me how much I benched. It could be that I give off the vibe of my max bench press is about as relevant as Macaulay Culkin. I always like to tell the meat heads that they have a spider on the shoulder and watch them try to scrape it off. Nine times out of ten they cannot touch their own shoulders because the pipes are in the way. They make T-Rex seem like Manute Bol. The only thing I can say is, if all of these guys were buddies, they would never let each other skip out on leg day. I haven't seen this much disproportion since I watched Dolly Parton sing at the Grand Ol' Opry. It's just awkward....and not necessary. To each their own I suppose.
I could discuss the cock fest in the shower, the self-gawking in the mirrors, or even the fashion show that is gym attire at this place. But in all reality, it simply adds to the dysfunction that is Gold's Gym. The alternative for me, I suppose, is to sit around and get fatter. But my doctor has advised me that doing this goes against his better judgment. So, I will just go...and do everything I can to not go to jail. But don't try to talk to me....because chances are, you have a spider on your shoulder.
I am a people person, but I am NOT an everyone person. NO ONE loves their job, or gives the impression of absolute job satisfaction like Gold's Gym customer service people do. I am usually accosted by 2-3 Stepford Wife-looking girls, twenty somethings that have not seen whole food since they applied. I usually walk in with iPod earbuds in place as to not have to listen to the verbal vomit that accompanies me handing my keys over. "Ready for a great workout today?" **BEEP**, their lifeless hands giving me my keys back. No....no I am not. I am actually here to try on the bandana you guys call a tank top. Maybe a speedo or two. Or maybe spend a small fortune on one of your smoothies that will make me see God 8 seconds after the first gulp. Oh, it helps with male stamina and virility? Awesome! Give me two so I can go home and lock my wife in the Red Room and we can pick a new safe word. "Does this polo shirt make me look fat?" Lady, the last time you were fat, the doctor was cleaning the cheese off your face just after birth. Ever since then, your organs are as protected as the yolk in an egg dropped from 30,000 feet. If I go get you a #1 with cheese across the street, will stop talking to me like you give a shit? Yes, my mind is busy during and after the card scan. Bear with me, it gets more annoying.
As if walking into the place wasn't shitty enough, I do my cardio activity in the cardio theater. It's not that I want to avoid all of the short shorts, sleeveless shirts and pedophiles that frequent the social area. I would just rather sweat in the dark, without someone leering next to me wanting to discuss the rapid endorphin release caused by climbing 600 flights of stairs. I get it. You climbed th Empire State building twice. Bra-fucking-vo. That is awesome for you. You're done. "I have so much weight to lose." Really? You still shop at Baby Gap...and you are what, 30? As awesome as it is to be able to wear your kids clothes still, a sweaty camel toe, despite popular men's magazines stating otherwise, is not attractive. If I can see your anatomy, while you towel down, it isn't pretty....ever. Call me old....call me gay....call me blind. Listen, I can appreciate a healthy body, male or female. But shut the fuck about it. Even when you aren't talking about it, how you walk, how you stand, and what you are wearing screams I HAVE DADDY ISSUES! All the fucking steps in the world are not going to make him love you. If you wear spankies and a sports bra...I hate you without you ever speaking a word. You reek of insecurity, even though your outward appearance says you have some semblance of confidence.
At the same time I look to the right and see sweaty snatch, I can usually look to the left and see a plethora of TRAINER shirts helping the morbidly obese find happiness. They do so, however, looking around, advertising the fact they hate their life because they have to help someone who has not helped themselves. They are snooty...100% of the time. I am sure there are some really cool trainers that have found a passion for helping people, but I haven't see one of those people yet. I could be portrayed as bitter, but these people, tasked to help others find happiness, prove to me every time I go that being skinny does not make you happy. neither do white teeth and 2T shorts, apparently. I imagine that there is this sense of accomplishment watching other people sweat, but I do not see any one of these trainers solving the problem at its core. Hell, there is no money in prevention. I think the best thing they can do is help these people so much that they never see them again. I get looks from these trainers like "you reallllllly need to be over here with us." Yeah? That is as likely to happen as me Googling "STARR JONES NAKED." I like hearing some skinny asshole tell me "just one more rep" as much as women want to hear from their prom date "aw c'mon....just the tip." So, as you peer at me through your beady fucking eyes and give me the fake smile that is meant to say "I am so glad you came in today, fatass," remember that, despite my outward appearance, I am much happier than you. Even though this post indicates otherwise.
I love your crotch rocket. It's sunny, warm, and the fact you roll it up to the bike racks to park on the sidewalk, as if to say "I FUCKING ARRIVED" is....how do they say it in France? Fucking stupid. Yup, you got your weight belt, your gym bag full of what I am not sure since you rolled up ready to go and your sunglasses, the HOOTERS lanyard with your keys....you are a walking billboard of health and wellness. Have you ever just watched these people walk in to a Gold's Gym? I have. It's great. The ONLY plan they have when they walk in is to attempt to set the record for the most eyes on them in 10 seconds. Then they walk over and sit on the couch, pull out there phone to undoubtedly check in on Facebook "at the Gym, getting my sweat on - At Gold's Gym, Richland, WA." Then they text....who knows who to make plans for afterwards. Then they stand up and stretch, check their phone again, look around and count the eyes. Over to the free weights they go for a testosterone flex-fest. I can't remember the last time someone asked me how much I benched. It could be that I give off the vibe of my max bench press is about as relevant as Macaulay Culkin. I always like to tell the meat heads that they have a spider on the shoulder and watch them try to scrape it off. Nine times out of ten they cannot touch their own shoulders because the pipes are in the way. They make T-Rex seem like Manute Bol. The only thing I can say is, if all of these guys were buddies, they would never let each other skip out on leg day. I haven't seen this much disproportion since I watched Dolly Parton sing at the Grand Ol' Opry. It's just awkward....and not necessary. To each their own I suppose.
I could discuss the cock fest in the shower, the self-gawking in the mirrors, or even the fashion show that is gym attire at this place. But in all reality, it simply adds to the dysfunction that is Gold's Gym. The alternative for me, I suppose, is to sit around and get fatter. But my doctor has advised me that doing this goes against his better judgment. So, I will just go...and do everything I can to not go to jail. But don't try to talk to me....because chances are, you have a spider on your shoulder.
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