My Gym (again)

Joining a gym has proven quite useful, if for no other reason that it keeps giving me (boring) blog material.

The latest is this:

Naked Realtor was in the free weight room (clothed). I walk by and say "hey."

He looks at me like I was fucking scum. Motherfucker (clothed) didn't even recognize me from three days ago when he yakked my goddamned ear off (unclothed).

But that wasn't even the highlight of this workout, no the highlight was this:

Morbidly obese man wearing a weight belt to protect his back, spent thirty minutes doing one, yes one, exercise over and over and over (not that it matters but it was a tricep pulldown, which is the sort of thing you'd want to do three sets of, not three hundred).

Astonished that he was still doing it a half hour after I arrived (and lord knows how long he'd been doing it before I showed up), I happened to walk by him only to overhear him say to no one in particular "this is stupid."

Yes it is, Mr Morbidly Obese, yes it is. He's my new favorite gym character, beating out the previous favorite, cat tattoo dyke lady. Yes, I'm not the only one with a cattoo. But she's got no Ptattoo (at least that I"m aware of), so I still win.

comma, comma, comma, comma.

I think having more than doubled the number of posts last month qualifies this as a bona fide "Blogaissance".

I missed the memo that this was where we submit all demand lists, "rather be" lists, and "things I've done whilst being smitten" lists. Allow me to make up for lost time.

Demands:
1) more sharkweek.
2) less february. every year. Seriously, just get rid of it all together.
3) fewer folks wearing loafers in my immediate vicinity.
4) more pie.

Rather Be:
a) Blah School Dropout
b) the next American Idol
c) my childhood idol: Hall Monitor (and No, Babbles, I don't mean the reptile kind)
d) snotty, pretentious wine expert (a.k.a well dressed lush)
e) patissier
f) mechanic
g) (if gender and orientation were not a bar) drag queen

Things I've done whilst smitten:
first: making a left hand turn from the middle lane on a red light, cutting off a cop, and therefore getting pulled over by said cop.

next: bought (as a present) an iMac in December. (Got broken up with in January.)

last: attended local South Dakota version of a NASCAR Race. (oh, the shame)

that is all.

Another actual sign posted at my gym

They've posted a follow-up sign, apparently the bandit is still around...


Attention Members:
We'd love to keep the treadmills open, but the HEALTH DEPARTMENT is making us close them down because SOMEONE keeps SHAVING, WASHING, AND DEFACATING on them. Because of this, there will no longer be treadmills to use.


Okay, it should be known, however, that I was the one who posted this sign. And it was handwritten on a paper towel.

Sometimes I feel like making love

And when I do, I like to play music that sets the mood.

It's important to create an environment that makes those involved feel comfortable and relaxed. The right music is integral to this.

And as I'm sure all of the unfortunate souls who've shared this experience with me would attest (that is, if they were still speaking to me at all), this playlist seems the most appropriate for the special occasion.

Shelley Pomeroy's End of the Year Party

...is scheduled to take place sometime in May. In a cabin near Nederland, Colorado. Everyone's welcome to attend. Molly, your job is to not tell your sister. Gal's job is to make sure Veronica Mars shows up, Moronica's job is to find someone of age to get the liquor, AVE's job is to not use up all the GHB before the event.

And for the love of god, don't tell usher about this.

yes, please

I'll accept any job that gives me an excuse to avoid doing other, more productive things, so of course I happily accept a submit button here.

And now that I've taken this gig, here is my list of demands:

1. An introduction to Gal. In person. Babbles, you should be able to arrange this.
2. Tattoo of a "submit" button. (I suppose I can take care of this one on my own.)
3. Hookers.
4. Blow.
5. This.
6. This.
7. A case of this.
8. And a case of this.

OK! So I'm going to make some coffee and I'll just wait here for my stuff to arrive. Any time now would be fine.


...


And hurry up. I'm hungry.

two lame ideas in one post

The thing about institutions of higher learning, specifically those that train the ethically bereft lawyers of tomorrow, is that they love giving rules and restrictions to the general masses; where one statute could do, one with three subsections, two sub-sub sections and one reference to a completely different statute is Superb.

Then they opt out of actually following the rules the rest of us learned in elementary school. What made me give up on homework tonight is the definition section that uses the word they are trying to define in the definition. And if once is good enough, three times is Grand.

Now I'm stuck trying to decide what is better to waste my time: Adventures in Babysitting or Big Trouble in Little China.

Although the real question is which has worse lines:
"You know what Ol' Jack Burton always says at a time like this. . ."
OR

"Don't Fuck with the Lords of Hell!" "Don't Fuck with the Babysitter!"

oh, the mediocrity . . .

Attention: Molly Slaggerty

So while at my gym today a man in the locker room started a conversation with me. This is the first time someone at my gym has spoken to me (and hopefully the last).

Anyway, Miss Molly, this is your fault. It was painful; he was a real estate agent.

Realtor: Hey man, how many tattoos do you have?

Me: (what? you're talking to me? fuck) ... (mumbles something incoherent)

Realtor: Yeah, I go to the shop downtown. I'm thinking of getting a big dragon.

Me: (You mean like as a tattoo, or a pet) ... (mumbles something incoherent)

Realtor: On my chest.

Me: (that doesn't answer the question) ... (mumbles something incoherent)

Then I did that thing I do where I try to drum up business for you... Hope you don't mind doodling dragons on lame dudes' boobs.

And oh yeah, he was fucking naked the entire time.

I told him to go to your website. And to put on pants.

A list of things I would rather be than a lawyer:

personal trainer
professional poker player
teacher at at least the high school level
writer for a television series
sportscaster
television announcer for a poker show
optometrist
part of an advertisement team
dog whisperer
radio dj
florist
rodeo clown
pool boy
person who puts the newspapers on those stick things at the library
janitor
ditchdigger
dead

Should I have expected this?

Oh great. Now my St. Jude candle won't light.

Living amongst the unwashed and illogical masses

So a while back I decided to try to live in a more healthy fashion. A big part of the attack plan for Operation: Cholesterol Bad, Beta Carotene Good was to change my awful, awful diet.

I bought a head of lettuce and a wad of cauliflower. Or maybe it's called a bunch, I don't know, whatever. Anyway, lettuce and cauliflower.

A few weeks later, which was approximately a few weeks since I'd given up, I realized I should have just named the plan Mission: Impossible and cleaned out the fridge.

Instead of throwing the lettuce and cauliflower (and yes, those two things were the only healthy foods I attempted to eat) into the garbage, I just tossed them into the backyard. And then I noticed that I had some stale bread, so I tossed that out, piece by piece all over the yard. I figured animals would eat it or something.


The next day my roommate told me that "Our asshole meth-head neighbors threw a bunch of rotten shit into our yard so I went out and threw it back."

He continued the story by telling me that as he was walking around the yard collecting the food (and then subsequently throwing it over the fence), our other neighbor, a nice old man (who lives on the other half of the meth-head duplex) came outside. He saw Roommate throwing the food into his yard. Roommate, caught red-handed, announced "Sorry, but your douchebag neighbor threw it into my yard and I don't want it."

The beauty of that statement is that it's true, only the douchebag neighbor is me.

In the end the nice old man had to walk around picking up the food, which I still don't understand, why we can't just let it rot in the yard. But whatever.

The lesson to be learned here is that none of this would have happened had I just bought more big boy chips like I had wanted to.


Also, three posts in two days; I guess this means there won't be another one for six weeks.

Hide the milk

What scares me most about an army of undead skeleton warriors rising from the wet earth to take their place at the top of the evolutionary food chain with large swords and three point hats, aside from their viscousness and lack of mercy (much like the reavers from Firefly), is that fact that because they don't have muscle cells to fill with lactic acid, which is the cause of fatigue, they'll never get tired. At least not in the 'weakened' sense of the word, I'm sure they still get sleepy. Hopefully. Oh my god, what if they don't sleep? We're so fucked.

And because they don't have blood, they're immune to attacks from vampires. An onslaught of osteoporosis is our only hope.




God, class is so boring right now.

Actual sign posted at my gym

Attention Members:
We'd love to keep the jacuzzi open, but the HEALTH DEPARTMENT is making us close it down because SOMEONE keeps SHAVING, WASHING, AND DEFACATING in it. Because of this, there will no longer be a jacuzzi to use.

Okay, so my first thought was "wow, one guy is doing all that stuff?" And my second thought was "I wonder what order he's doing these things in?"

Exciting hygiene related news

So I was in target the other day purchasing new deodorant (because of the girl deodorant thing), and yes, it took me this long to rectify the situation, when I noticed that my 'powder fresh' female anti-perspirant was in the men's section. IT'S NOT GIRL DEODORANT AFTER ALL!! Apparently men can smell like candy these days, too.

This totally makes up for the disappointment I felt when I realized that 'powder fresh' doesn't mean 'gun powder'.

The Alumni magazine

So the graduate school Gal and I attend (reluctantly, mind you) is semi-prestigious (according to some sources). The school takes pride in this semi-prestige, mainly because it allows them greater pull when hitting up the alumni for donations (which is something that once I'm an alumnus I will never give in to).

Part of their strategy for procuring the chedda' from rich graduates is to print up a bi-monthly magazine about recent happenings in the school. The compilers of this rag lean heavily on two main sources for material- they like to open the magazine with a list of student accomplishments, and close with a list of donors and the amount of their donations (using their readerships' propensity towards competing with each other, brilliant).

In the most recent issue the list of student achievements tragically omits the black-face scandal that hit the school in September (yes, a student actually came to school in blackface, and not in an ironic nor protesting manner- he was into it.). But it does highlight a few of the summer feats of my peers.

One of those featured students is a fucking toad. I mean that literally; he looks like he was the spawn produced by an unfortunate e-harmony pairing of Kermit the Frog and Professor Umbridge. But over the summer he got some fancy bullshit job because his parents are loaded (again, I mean that literally- fucking drunks. But rich, too) and so now the magazine wants him prominently featured.

That's the extent of my knowledge of this particular person, except for one other thing. Last spring during finals week my neighbor was making small talk with me, and happened to mention that while he was in the engineering library some damn law student was walking around asking people if he could buy any adderall from them. He then went on to describe the odd appearance of this person, noting his strange proportions. I asked if perhaps this mystery slimeball looked like a giant baby, or perhaps a toad. My neighbor confirmed this diagnosis as being "eerily accurate."

Yes, he was cold-calling strangers for unprescribed children's ADD medication. Why don't they put that in the magazine? Or at least a picture of him sitting on his lilypad.

These are my peers, and why I hate school (one of the reasons anyway).