I was trash talking about playing my friend at work in racketball, a sport that I don't even know the rules. "I'll crush you." I said. He then replies, in the office mind you, "yeah, well I have the tendancy to hit people in the back of the head with the balls so watch out."
I'm still laughing.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
In Da Club
So I returned to the health club for what I call resisting nature. Can't we all just get fat? I can't. Whenever my stomach hits the belt buckle and it leaves an indentation that rivals a cattle branding I realize it's time to slow down and only eat two donuts when someone buys them for work.
I arrived at a time when the pool was not open. So I went to the place of fitness masturbation, cardio-land. That crap doesn't do anything but allow you to run up the stairs to get another bowl of ice cream. Oh, also make you walk like an astronaut for 20 minutes after you get off.
The only spot I found was a grimy elliptical that was placed so well in between two tv's that I could only stare at the wall. Such a metaphor for life. Not to forget that fact I was in a mini purgatory for ommitting fitness from my life. Now I maybe in salvageable shape but it's scary. I can feel the looming presence of man boobs if I don't get my act together.
When I went to swim I finally went and made some strides in my workout. There is a poor time for lap swimming. Whenever there is open swim next to it. Not only do I feel like a Scooby Doo villian due to those meddling kids but I began to think about how something that was a symbol of pure bliss is now a gauntlet of exercise.
All we do in those damn clubs is just for the flicker of a chance to show how underestimated we were. Don't worry ladies you can pretend you have the matching personality that will make our jaws drop while we work on wowing you with something we can lift- with the help of a friend.
I arrived at a time when the pool was not open. So I went to the place of fitness masturbation, cardio-land. That crap doesn't do anything but allow you to run up the stairs to get another bowl of ice cream. Oh, also make you walk like an astronaut for 20 minutes after you get off.
The only spot I found was a grimy elliptical that was placed so well in between two tv's that I could only stare at the wall. Such a metaphor for life. Not to forget that fact I was in a mini purgatory for ommitting fitness from my life. Now I maybe in salvageable shape but it's scary. I can feel the looming presence of man boobs if I don't get my act together.
When I went to swim I finally went and made some strides in my workout. There is a poor time for lap swimming. Whenever there is open swim next to it. Not only do I feel like a Scooby Doo villian due to those meddling kids but I began to think about how something that was a symbol of pure bliss is now a gauntlet of exercise.
All we do in those damn clubs is just for the flicker of a chance to show how underestimated we were. Don't worry ladies you can pretend you have the matching personality that will make our jaws drop while we work on wowing you with something we can lift- with the help of a friend.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Fate
I believe in fate. That's why I read my horroscope the day after.
TAURUS (April 20-May 20): It's totally normal to have feelings of escapism today. I can barely sit still to write this column. Take it easy, but try to indulge your need to explore the world more. Do something different. Go someplace you've never been to before. Talk to the animals.
The stars know all, see all, and tell all with pinpoint generalizations.
TAURUS (April 20-May 20): It's totally normal to have feelings of escapism today. I can barely sit still to write this column. Take it easy, but try to indulge your need to explore the world more. Do something different. Go someplace you've never been to before. Talk to the animals.
The stars know all, see all, and tell all with pinpoint generalizations.
Pistol Toting Bachelorettes
Now that I have your attention, let me inform you that title is true. Last night I went out for a fine time at Chili's (that's how I turn it down a notch when I so am on fire). After that my friend and I hit the bar scene. Mistake one, we got there way too early. Mistake two, we spoke to a bachelorette party.
Why? It was a bizzarro world. For the first time in my life the ratio favored men at this oft-sausage hut. I had choices. CHOICES. Choices are dangerous. There were so many of them that I was able to literally know that abc plan route before we walked over there.
Within first minutes B was all about being friendly. Cool right? You bet mainly since I had my friend run wing man all night. So once I established the great relationship with B I asked her about A. Apparently, A was an immigrant and I shouted "no f---ing is she an immigrant!" Oh that was true. A looked like the middle child from 7th Heaven without the annoying need to talk so much. When I got to say hi to A she was leaving. She gave me her name and I thought she was clearing her throat. Broken English is cute/hot, but teaching the damn language is too much effort for bar love.
So back to B. Locked down. Full connection and she was cool, older but still digging me until he next drink was taken care of. Suddenly B was out of consideration because she got soaked up in the games of the night. Enter C. Yikes. The whole time metaphors went rampant. Eating vegetables I hate but know are good for me, batting cage practice, asking for more dental work. All of those options were how talking to her became.
The irony of these miscue's of romance are that we claim they are shallow and lack character to compel us to stay. Then we represent exactly that. She was a nice girl, just a complete mismatch again.
We were invited to the post bar party. That was so far away I began to thing an oasis would appear on the road. When we arrived at the house of what I thought was the house of one of the bride's friends I realized it was the fiance's house. Wonderful. He, mind you dressed in a wife beater, had a neo-Nazi shaved head with tattoos all over him. His friend was sporting his tattoos on the back of his neck, surely to commemorate his parole. Somehow we were welcomed in, that's right because it was a lion's den.
The next ten minutes I became acquainted with an albino pitbull. Now pitbulls are fierce, an albino is worse it feels it needs to prove its toughness. So we watched them (the girls too) wrestle the dog. Apparently this dog enjoyed being punched in the face. Something I think is a miscommunication between pet and owner. So much drama lead to a smoke break for many.
After walking back in from watching people smoke I was baptizes into the pits of hell. The bride was waving a .45 caliber pistol around while sitting at the kitchen counter. I would love to recall what she was hollering about but I was too concerned for their floor needing to be mopped. "It's not loaded." They claimed. Wow, that's good because I almost thought you were a freaking nut job. Actually, you are. Now, the party never hit the highs it could have since the fiance mentioned over and over that he didn't even have his shotgun with him at the house. Didn't he know that the guests would be coming over and would love to see the mental malitia's inventory. Could it still be in the evidence locker? Maybe.
It was at that point I was in Lord of the Flies mode, ready to let all the idiots kill themselves. All of the bachelorette parties I have seen at the bars have been memorable. This one was a dramatic interpretation to Pulp Fiction.
Bring in the Gimp.
Why? It was a bizzarro world. For the first time in my life the ratio favored men at this oft-sausage hut. I had choices. CHOICES. Choices are dangerous. There were so many of them that I was able to literally know that abc plan route before we walked over there.
Within first minutes B was all about being friendly. Cool right? You bet mainly since I had my friend run wing man all night. So once I established the great relationship with B I asked her about A. Apparently, A was an immigrant and I shouted "no f---ing is she an immigrant!" Oh that was true. A looked like the middle child from 7th Heaven without the annoying need to talk so much. When I got to say hi to A she was leaving. She gave me her name and I thought she was clearing her throat. Broken English is cute/hot, but teaching the damn language is too much effort for bar love.
So back to B. Locked down. Full connection and she was cool, older but still digging me until he next drink was taken care of. Suddenly B was out of consideration because she got soaked up in the games of the night. Enter C. Yikes. The whole time metaphors went rampant. Eating vegetables I hate but know are good for me, batting cage practice, asking for more dental work. All of those options were how talking to her became.
The irony of these miscue's of romance are that we claim they are shallow and lack character to compel us to stay. Then we represent exactly that. She was a nice girl, just a complete mismatch again.
We were invited to the post bar party. That was so far away I began to thing an oasis would appear on the road. When we arrived at the house of what I thought was the house of one of the bride's friends I realized it was the fiance's house. Wonderful. He, mind you dressed in a wife beater, had a neo-Nazi shaved head with tattoos all over him. His friend was sporting his tattoos on the back of his neck, surely to commemorate his parole. Somehow we were welcomed in, that's right because it was a lion's den.
The next ten minutes I became acquainted with an albino pitbull. Now pitbulls are fierce, an albino is worse it feels it needs to prove its toughness. So we watched them (the girls too) wrestle the dog. Apparently this dog enjoyed being punched in the face. Something I think is a miscommunication between pet and owner. So much drama lead to a smoke break for many.
After walking back in from watching people smoke I was baptizes into the pits of hell. The bride was waving a .45 caliber pistol around while sitting at the kitchen counter. I would love to recall what she was hollering about but I was too concerned for their floor needing to be mopped. "It's not loaded." They claimed. Wow, that's good because I almost thought you were a freaking nut job. Actually, you are. Now, the party never hit the highs it could have since the fiance mentioned over and over that he didn't even have his shotgun with him at the house. Didn't he know that the guests would be coming over and would love to see the mental malitia's inventory. Could it still be in the evidence locker? Maybe.
It was at that point I was in Lord of the Flies mode, ready to let all the idiots kill themselves. All of the bachelorette parties I have seen at the bars have been memorable. This one was a dramatic interpretation to Pulp Fiction.
Bring in the Gimp.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Extra Hand
If you would like to be given the most negative unsolicited advice, tell your inner circle that you are thinking of pursuing that person romantically or buying a car.
Fool proof foolry.
Fool proof foolry.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Hype Sells
I saw King Kong about a week ago and I must say it was the most beautiful waste of my time in years. It's the new Titanic. The film takes about one hour to find the dumb monkey. Then was Peter decides to do is take twenty minutes from Jurassic Park and splice it in so that we can see, man, ape, and dinosaurs. Great job.
Besides every cliff looking like a copy from the trilogy of the Fellowship of the Ring, Peter Jackson's version just let the sour notes linger too long. Cliche little guy needs moral values spelled out by token black man. All principle characters avoid danger while others are picked off like bugs, and so on.
My big gripe of this all is Adrian Brody. Whoever thought manic depressive jumbo nosed drama man queens were the next big thing should turn off Bravo and let actors with testicles play the men. Now, I did like how poorly he was treated in the movie. However, I am still waiting for some bombshell to find my "inner beauty" and look past the protruding ears and freckles. It appeared as though his nose was getting bigger in each scene.
My question is whose nose is more gangly, awkward, or simply bigger? Adrian Brody or Ashlee Simpson? Imagine if they procreated. The kid would have a schnoz the size of a door knob. I really shouldn't judge since afterall, my nostrils are contoured up making me look like I can score blow quicker than Robert Downey Jr.
Robert Downey Jr, now there's an actor. America's alley cat, but hell of an actor.
Besides every cliff looking like a copy from the trilogy of the Fellowship of the Ring, Peter Jackson's version just let the sour notes linger too long. Cliche little guy needs moral values spelled out by token black man. All principle characters avoid danger while others are picked off like bugs, and so on.
My big gripe of this all is Adrian Brody. Whoever thought manic depressive jumbo nosed drama man queens were the next big thing should turn off Bravo and let actors with testicles play the men. Now, I did like how poorly he was treated in the movie. However, I am still waiting for some bombshell to find my "inner beauty" and look past the protruding ears and freckles. It appeared as though his nose was getting bigger in each scene.
My question is whose nose is more gangly, awkward, or simply bigger? Adrian Brody or Ashlee Simpson? Imagine if they procreated. The kid would have a schnoz the size of a door knob. I really shouldn't judge since afterall, my nostrils are contoured up making me look like I can score blow quicker than Robert Downey Jr.
Robert Downey Jr, now there's an actor. America's alley cat, but hell of an actor.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
The Case of Vengeful Sausage/Second Place Again
Friday night I enjoyed what I thought to be a polish sausage and order of cheese fries. I was mistaken. This working man's feast was a toxic voyage waiting to happen. I went to bed with aspirations of one of my favorite holidays pending. Suddenly I wake, doubting what symptoms I feel I move to the bathroom for precaution. Sure enough I vomitted. So began my experience of food poising.
I will spare you from the nitty gritty details of how sick I was. Take it from me, food posioning is as close to going into detox; in my opinion. As I lay on my bed a couple hours before the party shuttle (me) is to get a move on, I wonder what exactly I did to piss God off so much.
The calls from my friends came in, I explained that I would be a game time decision of questionable for this well planned event. What was surprising to me was that when I mentioned I thought it was food poisoning they all asked what I ate. I said a polish sausage. All of them, came back with an "ooh told you so" tone saying "a polish sausage will get you all the time." Since when was one encased meat biproduct more prone to bacterial infection than another? Word to the wise no more polish sausage.
We get to the hotel, sweet as hell- that's how I roll. My friends go out for a snack while I try to die in the room. Once time comes we head over to the bar for the party. Enter the frustration point of my life. I arranged for my friends to come to a place where for 5 hours we can drink all the micro beer or wine we want, eat as much pizza and hang out yet I can't stomach a thing.
To make matters worse, my friend went above and beyond to mention me to one of his girlfriend's single friends. She was there, beautiful, single, smart, likes drinking, personable, and I couldn't bear more than some basic small talk fearing that my body would break down from the food poisoning. I watched her kiss some other dude at midnight and was rendered helpless. It was kind of like when I went into surgery and the sedation made my body unresponsive to what my brain was thinking. Hopefully she didn't really like that guy. My only saving grace with her is that she invited me to a brunch (which I didn't attend for obvious reasons).
The evening was rather anti-climatic for a number of reasons. I was such a spectator to it all. Prior to this night I pondered the attire choices. I know that 90% of the men would be in striped shirts. I was correct. I was not. I almost was going to wear a shirt that said "why aren't you married yet?" That's what I saw last night. Gone are the days when you could look a girl in the eyes and see her looking for someone that can get her another drink and go have fun. Now the majority of the females have the look poised for husbands.
It was only a matter of time before the hunter becomes the hunted.
I will spare you from the nitty gritty details of how sick I was. Take it from me, food posioning is as close to going into detox; in my opinion. As I lay on my bed a couple hours before the party shuttle (me) is to get a move on, I wonder what exactly I did to piss God off so much.
The calls from my friends came in, I explained that I would be a game time decision of questionable for this well planned event. What was surprising to me was that when I mentioned I thought it was food poisoning they all asked what I ate. I said a polish sausage. All of them, came back with an "ooh told you so" tone saying "a polish sausage will get you all the time." Since when was one encased meat biproduct more prone to bacterial infection than another? Word to the wise no more polish sausage.
We get to the hotel, sweet as hell- that's how I roll. My friends go out for a snack while I try to die in the room. Once time comes we head over to the bar for the party. Enter the frustration point of my life. I arranged for my friends to come to a place where for 5 hours we can drink all the micro beer or wine we want, eat as much pizza and hang out yet I can't stomach a thing.
To make matters worse, my friend went above and beyond to mention me to one of his girlfriend's single friends. She was there, beautiful, single, smart, likes drinking, personable, and I couldn't bear more than some basic small talk fearing that my body would break down from the food poisoning. I watched her kiss some other dude at midnight and was rendered helpless. It was kind of like when I went into surgery and the sedation made my body unresponsive to what my brain was thinking. Hopefully she didn't really like that guy. My only saving grace with her is that she invited me to a brunch (which I didn't attend for obvious reasons).
The evening was rather anti-climatic for a number of reasons. I was such a spectator to it all. Prior to this night I pondered the attire choices. I know that 90% of the men would be in striped shirts. I was correct. I was not. I almost was going to wear a shirt that said "why aren't you married yet?" That's what I saw last night. Gone are the days when you could look a girl in the eyes and see her looking for someone that can get her another drink and go have fun. Now the majority of the females have the look poised for husbands.
It was only a matter of time before the hunter becomes the hunted.
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