Wednesday, November 04, 2015

Gym and Me Through the Years

I have been going to the same gym for over ten years. And over the past ten years my waist has meandered from 32 to 34 to 33 to 32 to 34 (okay, 35… 36) and back down again.  

The gym has also gone through changes.  Broken equipment. New equipment. Renovations. Brand new equipment. 

The men and woman who work out at the gym have changed too. New faces. Faces embracing the joys and horrors of Botox/Plastic surgery. Old faces. New old faces. Young faces getting older. Old faces getting worse. 

Let’s not even mention the various big pecs, skinny pecs, cut abs, bloated abs, pot bellies, muscled legs, big asses, small asses, concave asses, and the ever frightening skinny twig chicken legs. 

I often asked myself why I go to the gym as often as I do. The answer is simple: Fear.  I fear having the genetic pot belly that has conquered generations of my family.   

I was there...
One time I let myself get rather large. I was in complete denial and refused to acknowledge what was happening around my mid-section. I somehow convinced myself elastic waist pants were the next fashion rage. I bought them. I wore them. I convinced myself I looked good. I didn’t. 

Denial is a strange bedfellow… and without thinking, I went to a nude beach… oh no… oh yes I did… 

While lying naked on the sand I looked down to make sure I wasn’t burning my nether region when I realized I couldn’t see my… thing… my little me.  My fat flabby jiggly stomach was blocking the view, a view I loved to see and was suddenly having a hard time remembering. 

Shame forced me to grab a towel and cover myself from head to toe.  I immediately ran to the gym praying to the God of Pot Bellies to pass over me and let me get back to the size I was before I succumbed to the excesses of sugar, chocolate, peanut butter, and fried chicken. 

Through sheer determination and a lot of sweating, I was able to get back into shape. 

Not me... yet

It was because of this that I realized I’m just like all the other gym folks. I fluctuate and I change and I age and I do the best I can. 

As of this moment, my waist is feeling happy at 32 inches and my upper torso enjoys a medium/large t-shirt.

The extra large t-shirts and elastic waist pants are hidden in the back of the closet. 

Just in case…

Thursday, October 22, 2015

A Clown-Free World

If there is one thing in life I would never want to be it’s a clown. And a nun, but that is a totally different story. (Or is it?)

I don’t like clowns. I don’t like their oversized clothes. I don’t like their color choices. I don’t like their fake face make-up. I don’t like their floppy shoes. I don’t like their failed attempt at being funny. 

I’m certain I’m not alone with these sentiments. 

I think clowns are sad creatures desperately in need of attention. Hey, wait a second… am I describing a Kardashian? (Now that’s funny!)

Has anyone ever laughed with a clown? At a clown?  Every time I see clips of circus audiences all I see is the forced laughter masquerading the fear and the dislike of clowns. 

As a child, I remember watching Bozo on television and thinking, “What the hell is this creature supposed to be?” The only reason I didn’t change the channel was that I was too damn lazy to get off the couch - yes, I was a husky kid -  and manually turn the channel. (In those days there was no TV remote.)

Some people like to live in a meat-free, gluten-free, and gmo-free world. I prefer to live in a clown-free world.

You can only imagine my horror when watching one of my favorite sitcoms, Modern Family, and discovering Cam has/had aspirations to be a clown.  Luckily, we’re in the modern age of TV remotes so I didn’t have to drag my fat ass off the couch and I quickly changed the channel. My admiration for Cam faltered, and I began to secretly hope Mitchel would divorce him for a clown-less man. 

Some people might think I’m being a bit harsh, but to those people I say, “What makes you think clowns are funny?” 

Maybe I have this dislike for clowns because my second grade teacher - Ms. Crabtree - accused me of being a class clown. I hated Ms. Crabtree, so maybe I equate clowns with her, that haughty mean spirited unfunny overbearing know-it-all bitch. Whatever, the way I feel about clowns is the way I feel and I don’t foresee that feeling changing in this lifetime. 

One thing for certain, you won’t be seeing me at a Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey show anytime soon. 

Now let’s talk about nuns… 

Sunday, October 11, 2015

The Non-Flushers

Today’s rant is all about the men in my office who go to the office mens room and #1 and #2 and never flush when they’re done. What gives?

I am so tired of going into the bathroom and seeing un-flushed urinals, and yes, un-flushed toilets too. This has been happening a lot lately and it has to stop. I don’t want to look in the urinal and know the man before me took too many vitamins, needs to take vitamins, or ate too much asparagus for lunch. 

As for the un-flushed toilets, if they’re afraid to put their hand on the flusher then they need to lift their leg and use their shoe to press the handle. It’s surprising what happens… Flush!  #1 and #2 disappear! 

This begs the questions, “Who raised these men to be Non-Flushers?” Did they grow up leaving their  #1 and #2 un-flushed in their house for their mothers or fathers to see, and flush for them? 

I am totally disgusted by their behavior, and had to resort to posting “Flush Me” signs over the urinals and on the toilet doors.  These grown men (or should I say boys?) need a sign to tell them to flush, and yet they don’t heed the warning. 

Maybe they don’t understand what the word “flush” means. 

I don’t care who they think you are, but they are no better than any other man who uses the bathroom. Their piss isn’t prettier and their shit is any more attractive than anyone else’s. No one wants to see what come out of their body.

Of course I am keeping an eye to see who goes into the bathroom so I can determine who the non-flushers are, and seek revenge. I want to catch them in the act and push their noses into the urinal and into the toilet like you do a dog when they mess on the floor. “Bad Pisser! Bad Shitter!”

Don’t they hear the urinals and toilets begging, “Flush me! Flush me!” after they’re done?  

If they can’t learn to flush then they need to have their mens room privileges taken away.  

And let’s not even talk about most men’s lack of aim… 

Thank goodness I’m not the janitor. 

Sunday, August 23, 2015

A Kardashian Got a Bikini Wax

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

The big news of the week is not about war, starvation, plague, terrorism, or the abuse of human rights. 

The big news of the week is a Kardashian got a bikini wax!  Yup, a Kardashian vagina has been waxed and steamed and is now ready for business. 

And by business I mean exploitation.  Why have a vagina if it can’t generate attention and  income? 

But which Kardashian had the bikini wax? That’s the vaginal question on everyone’s lips.

Expect numerous TV appearance by all the Kardashian, sitting with closed legs, promoting their vaginas, but not admitting who got the wax job. 

There will be a cell phone app people can download for $2.99 so they can look at close-up photos pre and post waxing, video of the actual waxing (taken on an iPhone which makes a great marketing/money making tie-in with Apple) and then vote for whose vagina it is. 

Over the next few weeks, the water cooler conversation will be “Did you see the vagina waxing? Which Kardashian vagina is it?”

The winners of the contest will receive a signed glossy eight by ten of the waxed vagina signed by the Kardashian who’s vagina was actually waxed.

Humankind will be overjoyed when the news is announced. 

I can’t think of any better way to spend $2.99.

All the news channels are preparing for the winning results so they can spend hours, if not days, discussing the bikini wax, the effect it has on the Kardashian empire and the Kardashian sex life. 

There’s a part of me that admires anyone who can be so blatant with self-promotion, so greedy for attention, and so forthcoming with their vagina. 

Then there’s the part of me that wonders what’s missing in their lives that they so desperately need attention. 

Do they ever get tired of themselves?

The other day I got inspired by the Kardashians bikini wax mania and started to trim my pubes but got bored before I finished. Now one side of my penis looks like a manicured suburban lawn and the other side looks like a clogged drain. 


It’ll grow back. 

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Potential Dangerous Donut Trend

Fact of life: Donuts are delicious.

Jelly donuts are my personal favorite though I’ve never said no to any donut offered. 

I have been known to go to the airport extra earlier in order to purchase a large cup of Dunkin’ Donut coffee and one jelly donut and one chocolate donut. It’s what I consider my pre-boarding-airport-foreplay. I sit outside the terminal savoring each bite and sip as the flavors cascade over my tongue… ooh… ooh… aah… and once on the plane I nap in absolute donut-afterglow. 

It’s with much dismay that I recently read about the donut licking stunt pulled by an overrated egotistical brat… you know who I’m talking about… the girl with the Grande ego.

I fear that her fans (I assume she has some) will start a donut-licking spree across the country, posting selfies on social media boasting their conquest with snapshots of their tongues covered in powdered sugar, icing, or cream with trays of licked donuts in the background. 

Oh sure, she’s saying she’s sorry, but I think her apology is code for her fans to rally behind her and do the dirty deed themselves. 

I fear a world where all donuts shops lose their “A” ratings and sink to a “B” or a “C,” or worse, are forced out of the donut business because they were licked to death. 

There is no saving a licked donut. 

I imagine piles and piles of licked donuts with no place to go. Who would want them? No one, not even the dumpster rats. 

I implore everyone to be on donut alert. When you have a few free moments take a walk around the neighborhood and stop by the donut shop to make sure there are no hooligans with wagging tongues circling the donuts. 

Keeps your eyes open for any donut lickers. Call 911 when you see one in action. We must be vigilant!  

Save the donuts and prevent this potential dangerous donut trend from beginning and spreading. 

Without donuts my world will not be a happy place. 

And no one wants to see me when I’m in an unhappy place...especially the girl with the Grande ego.

Wednesday, July 08, 2015

The Island of Black Souls

Some people are assholes and wreak havoc in our lives. 

When someone wreaks havoc in my life I banish them, in my mind, to the Island of Black Souls. 

The Island of Black Souls is an island in the middle of a vast murky ocean where people who’ve done me wrong go, never to be in my life again. Their eternity there is not summer breezes and Pina Coladas. It’s where they are taunted daily by their bad behavior. 

Who currently lives there?

The bald man from Vegas with a disco wig who criticizes everyone, including me. He proudly proclaims he’d never be friends with anyone who wasn’t “good looking.” This vain bald idiot doesn’t think anyone knows he wears a cheap disco styled hairpiece. On the Island of Black Souls he’s not allowed to wear his disco wig, and everywhere he goes he’s surrounded by mirrors.  Mirror, mirror on the wall… 

The egotistical movie production manager who is terrible at his job and blames everyone around him for his incompetence. “Lying” and “Backstabber” is his first and last name. On the Island of Black Souls he’s a film production assistant constantly berated, bullied, and abused by a crew that looks just like him.  Hey you, idiot… you suck… you’re worthless… you’re stupid… clean the bathrooms… get us coffee… now! 

The so-called “friend” who insisted on breaking something in my apartment every time he visited whether it was a towel rack or wine glass or a plate or chipping the freshly painted wall. Craaazy! On the Island of Black Souls everything he touches breaks, crumbles in his hand, and disintegrates.  He’s now afraid to masturbate… 

The judgmental self-righteous vegetarian who bullies and lectures everyone about eating the “right” way (aka her way), and who doesn’t have a nice thing to say about anyone who eats otherwise.  She told me I eat too “ethnic.” On the Island of Black Souls she’s forced to eat meat, is in a constant state of intestinal constipation, and every vegetable she finds in the island’s bush is rotted and inedible. Eat… Mangia!… it’s good for you… 

The castaways on the Island of Black Souls hate each other. Every night they’re forced to eat dinner together and every night the menu is the same: Roasted crow with potatoes deep fried in rancid lard, and slices of humble pie for dessert. 

When it is time to settle down to sleep their dreams are of me happy dancing and me happy singing and me happy laughing and me happily enjoying my happy life… without them.

And every morning they wake up screaming and begging for forgiveness. 

Oh, revenge is sweet… even if it’s only in my mind.

Monday, July 06, 2015

Big Butt Booty

Nobody wants a flat ass, or worse, a concave-in ass. You know the kind I mean. The ass that isn’t really an ass at all. It’s like two unappealing and unsexy tiny mounds of Play-Doh separated by a crack. There’s nothing to grab.  Clothes sag where the butt should be, and naked, well, it’s not a pretty picture.

It appears the trend now is surgically enhanced asses. Big butts. Butts so big they can be used as landing strips for DC-10s. 

A firm butt is nice to look at (and touch) and a somewhat big butt is a two-handed joy, but extra big butts… well, sometimes too big is too much and too much can be freaky. 

At the gym the other day I was nearly blinded by a woman walking towards me. She was quite tall and thin, nearing six feet, and was wearing a blue sports bra (not too big breasts) and matching blue spandex. Her prominent camel toe was eye-catching, but it was her surgically enhanced butt that was the real eye-catcher. I was surprised she was able to remain vertical. She was that wide…that big… that freaky. Her tiny waist gave way to hips that could pass for flotation devices.  

I had to stop what I was doing and watch her. I actually followed her around the gym just to make sure I saw what I saw and I wasn’t hallucinating. Hers has to be the biggest butt booty I’ve ever seen. Unnaturally shaped. 

That woman has a lot of cushion for the pushing… and it made me wonder… what’s going to happen when big butts are no longer trendy?  

Can the surgically enhanced butts be successfully surgically deflated? Once deflated will all that extra skin flap around like Dumbo’s ears?  

If this trend continues then airplane seats will need to be wider, theatre seats will need to be wider, toilet seats wider, arm chairs wider, doorways wider, bathtubs wider, Xerox machines wider to allow for big butt copying, hallways wider, cars wider… and the list goes on and on.  

Our whole physical world will need to be wider to accommodate these surgically enhanced big butts. 

Truth be told, big butts scare me. 

I‘ve been having this recurring nightmare where I’m in close proximity to a really big surgically enhanced butt and I get sucked into the crack never to be seen or heard from again. 

I am now constantly on alert at the gym fearful the blue spandex woman will be working out next to me.

She’ll get too close and whooooosh!…  I’ll be sucked in… 

Will anyone miss me?