Going Under the Virtual Knife
Why?
1. I’m playing a Texas Hold’Em tournament and I’m high chip stack at my table.
2. I’m eating fat, delicious, and FREE hot dogs.
3. Jim Cramer is on TV, boisterously declaring what a smart investment Capital One is. And I know this is true, because I bought it before it went up a few months ago.
I am experiencing a trifecta of satisfaction.
Yesterday I took my car to get fixed at Midas. They had these coupons on the counter for the Hobee’s nearby. “Try our signature coffee or ridiculously-overpowering-even-when-watered-down cinnamon orange tea and receive a free piece of blueberry crumb cake.”
After spending more than 500 bucks on my car, getting something free sounded pretty good. So I stopped in and got my tea and cake. I carried it out to my car, and like everyone else, set it on the roof while I juggled stuff and unlocked my car. Once all my other junk was safely on the floor of my car, I retrieved my tea, only for the extremely retarded java jacket to slip off the cup and thus mar the tea retrieval process. I splattered tea all over the roof of my car, and it was annoying.
Java jackets were probably invented because some moron sued or complained about their beverage being hot. Coffee and tea are hot, you dweeb-neeblers! If you can’t take the heat, stay outta the kitch–er, coffee place. No pain, no gain, suckas!
…but you should follow anyway.
Brush your teeth.
You’ll be breathing harder, which means your breath will have a longer range. Spare the rest of us. You brush before going almost anywhere else, so do it before you work out too.
Don’t wear perfume/cologne.
You may think it smells good, but when I’m pressing 70 pounds of weight between my thighs and gasping for breath, I don’t need to smell eau de Sunflowers (a fragrance that went out in the 90s, by the way). Same goes for guys: you’ll sweat profusely whether you remembered your Designer Impostors or not, so do us all a favor and save it for the evening.
Don’t stare.
Yes, I’m talking to you, old man on the ellipse next to me. Stop pretending you’re looking for someone when I notice you because the jig is up when you do it for 30 minutes and no one shows. If you can’t respectfully coexist in a gym with women, join an all-male gym and stop creeping me out. Which brings me to my next rule…
Don’t spaz out on the equipment.
Yes, I’m still talking to you, old man on the ellipse next to me. You aren’t doing much for your health when you break into full speed (for a whole 5 seconds) with your limbs and body flailing left and right, nearly causing the machine to tip over. You work out so you can feel younger and more attractive, right? Wanna know the key to looking young and attractive? Not acting like a freak!
Keep moaning and groaning to a minimum.
A little grunting and panting is in order when you’re lifting 200 pounds above your head in a mighty feat of strength, but when you’re stretching your legs after a 10-minute run? Give me a break. Do you make that much noise when you walk your dog?
Control your bowels.
This should be a widely followed rule of being human, but it goes double when you’re in a hot, crowded gym. Unfortunately, I’ve witnessed a few slips of the ass since I joined and it’s way more painful when you’re sprinting on a treadmill than when you’re out shopping and can escape quickly. Furthermore, I once had the poor luck of riding a stationary bike next to an older woman in Depends, which she appeared to be making use of, right then and there. Thanks a fucking lot, Oops I Crapped My Pants.
When I was in elementary school, I used suck on the wrappers of chocolate cupcakes. I would hold the edges and pull the middle into my mouth, making sweet love to the chocolately residue. Eventually, I’d stick the whole thing in my mouth and chew it like gum until it lost its flavor. Most other kids thought I was weird and didn’t want to play with me. I guess that’s why I stopped doing it.
Twenty years later, I’m sitting in my cubicle, typing high-priority work e-mails and messaging my friends with a big, slobbery cupcake wrapper hanging out of my mouth. Fuck those kids, man. I’m in flavor country.
I added links to some blogs I like to the left side of my site. It’s about time I showed some blogger love! And for those of you who haven’t been around since the dawn of time when I started this blog, I added a nifty list of my best posts, scrutinized and alphabetized for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!
Last night, my Chinese roommate showed me some dvds that she had burned and said I could watch them whenever I wanted. I said, “Thanks!” and went into my room. I came out a little later to get some water and she said, “I also like the movie, Meat Fucker.”
I paused for a minute, knowing that my Silicon Valley sweetheart of a roommate did not just say what my disgusting mind had processed it to mean.
“Oh!” I recovered, “Meet the Fockers… yeah, I haven’t seen that one yet. It looked good.”
And then I scurried back into my room, hoping that my pause didn’t insinuate that her accent is a problem. I can easily understand her, but I can just as easily follow a path of lewd distortion.
I’ve been somewhat out of commission for the past week because Gus, my wonderful boyfriend who knows everything, was in town. He got a flight-and-hotel deal from site59, which is the best travel site EVAR. We stayed at the Crowne Plaza in downtown San Jose and consequently spent most evenings in the area.
We spent most of Saturday night at The Vault, your standard-issue downtown nightclub featuring commercial hip-hop, arrogant bartenders, and a predominantly young crowd. Hearing rumors of house music, we had emerged from the Fairmont hotel bar having drank enough for us not to be choosy. Once we arrived at The Vault, Gus and I got drinks, parked ourselves upstairs, and waited for hijinx to ensue. (Yes, we waited for them. We weren’t that drunk!)
When I went downstairs to get another round, some guy started talking to me and offered me a cigarette. I bought two drinks (“One for my boyfriend,” I explained) and went outside. He told me all about how he met some girl on a party line and he took her to a movie and it was bullshit because she wasn’t even cute and she brought a girlfriend so she might be a lesbian. And I was like, “Party lines still exist?!”
I went on to talk about how much I hate the phone, love the internet, and used to meet people on the internet until I got a job and met my boyfriend who is currently upstairs waiting for his drink.
“Hey! Wanna meet my boyfriend? Sure you do! He’s great!” I headed inside and he said he’d meet me upstairs. He came up shortly after, met my boyfriend, and did some other uninteresting stuff I can’t remember.
I think he asked for my phone number while we were still outside and I gave it to him because I’m a flaming moron. I didn’t have a fake number, as there has never been a point in my life when I was so inundated with requests for my digits that I felt it necessary to make some up. In Chicago, I would sing, “Five eight eight, two three hundred… Em-piiiiiire!” (scroll down) and that would be my humorous way of saying, “Don’t call my house, my parents are crazy, and you’re not worth the trouble.”
Anyway, I gave this guy my real number and he called it last night at 8pm while I was playing cards. When he called, he didn’t even say his name. He just kinda started talking like I should remember that I met him at a club three days ago and was anxiously awaiting his call.
To his credit, at least he didn’t do the whole, “Guess who this is. Nope! Guess again. Nope…” I don’t know who does that anymore, but the last time someone did it to me, I belched really loud and hung up the damn phone.
Cell reception wasn’t great, so in between “what?” and “say that again,” the only useful information I received from that call was that the movie, 40-year-old Virgin, is good and I would like it.
Unfortunately, I hate the theater and refuse to go unless it’s an independent film or the theater’s superior screen and sound will greatly enhance my viewing experience. In all other cases, I avoid movie theaters like the plague.
Actually, that’s a lie. This isn’t the 1300s, so I don’t avoid the plague. But if there were a plague to avoid, everyone infected with it should go to the movies ’cause I won’t be there.
Anyway, we ran out of talking points fast, so the call lasted three minutes and eight seconds. I remember this exactly because I think T-Mobile rounds up to the minute for each call instead of totalling minutes and seconds every month. And he called before nine, which means I used four “whenever” minutes. It’s really sad that I’m being stingy about my minutes when I have 600 per month and, since I hate the phone, don’t use nearly that many. Maybe I’m more upset that I’ll never get those minutes of my life back.
Having moved from Chicago to Baton Rouge, and having been consequently disgusted with the South and moving again, I have some choice words for the dunces we see wallowing in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Louisiana was already hell on earth, plagued with laziness, unacceptance, stupidity, and thoughtlessness; this just gave us a reason to show the world. Everyone has their own opinions about the victims of Katrina and what should be done. And if you’re realistic like me, you know that sharing them profusely doesn’t make a difference at all. So, knowing that my best friend and former college mates are safe, I will discuss another topic today.
Why does every woman in my age category think their group of friends is “the wildest, craziest group ever”?
“When my girlfriends and I get together, look out world! We’re so crazy!”
First, if I cannot clearly infer that you’re “wild” based on your behavior and you find it necessary to verbally inform me of your hijinx, I am automatically unimpressed. That information was unsolicited and most likely untrue.
Next, when the topic is pressed further (I am a glutton for punishment), usually by a disbelieving look that I can’t even force myself to hide, the stories come out. They are usually very unimpressive stories.
“We danced on a table!”
“I laughed so hard I spilled my drink!”
“So-and-so flashed her boobs!”
Wow, that’s crazy. No one else in the history of partying has ever done those things. And I’m sure if anyone has, it was definitely way funnier when you did it! Because you and your friends are a one-of-a-kind, crazy group that’s always where the action is. That’s why your retarded house party is the most boring one I’ve ever been to, and these crazy friends of yours couldn’t party their way out of a paper bag. And paper bags are really easy to party out of.
A level above those types are the groups of girls who go out, desperately seeking a way to publicly reaffirm their independence… by clinging to each other in a massive cattle herd of black skirts and bangle bracelets all night long. They only drink about one martini each, but they talk louder than everyone else in the joint and dramatically react to each other’s bullshit stories to show off just how much fun they’re having.
Then there are the fake lesbians. Ah, fake lesbians… a good substitute when you can’t find real lesbians, right? Not so much. Fake lesbians are unoriginal attention whores who are neither attractive nor witty, but for some reason feel entitled to the spotlight at clubs and parties.
I’m not suggesting that actual gay and bisexual people hide their affection for each other in public. Girl, if you like girls and want to dance with girls, you go girl! But if you’re just some dull, homely chick who wants to get attention by dry-humping other dull, homely chicks, everyone can tell right away. You don’t look “wild” and “cool”, you look uncomfortable and silly, so knock it the fuck off.
The bottom line is, unless we’re snorting coke at an afterhours club at 7 in the morning, watching a Mexican donkey show, swinging naked from giant chandeliers, having massive group sex involving whips and chains, getting drunk in an underground brothel, or engaged in some other form of illegal debauchery, I really don’t want to hear how crazy you and your friends are. In fact, if we’re doing any of the aforementioned activities, you probably won’t be able to tell me anything because you’ll have a straw up your nose and a dick in your ass, and that’s just fine with me.