People who suffer from unfunnieness and their enablersStevemo blogger for the local rag (there is so much fuggin’ wrong with a newspaper hiring gratis wannabe writers I don’t know where to begin) points me at another hipster comic blogger. I need a laugh (also need to steal an idea but that is another post) today so I take decisive action. I click the link. The blog title's prediction, I fear, is incorrect.
Why do I have to be so decisive? Why can’t I be passive and just assume the comics will suck? Why? Why am I a chump? Why am I so optimistic? Why are people so blind to their ineptitude? Why? Why? Why? Whyfugginwhy? Why do writers think they are so fuggin funny when it is excruciatingly clear to everybody, including family members, that they are not? Nor will they ever be. They are hopeless, hapless, helpless. I cry every time they put pencil to paper. Seriously. I am misspelling the worlds (see!) because I can’t blink back tears quickly enough.
I am inspired to write the following.
Lady, The Marx Brothers are funny. You are not. Dorothy Parker is witty. You are not. Jonathan Winters is manic. You are depressive. Andrea Martin is a genius. You are a dullard. Jean Sheppard left us. You will not replace him. Three Stooges are funny. You are not. Modern Family is funny. You are not. Nor are you cute, nor ridiculous (well, not that way). I gave you five minutes, you ruined my day. Hope you’re happy. Hope you go to your New Year's Eve party And tell all your unfunny buddies how you brought Yourself to tears. Because it would break my fuggin' heart to find That you aren’t getting any enjoyment out of your Scribblings either. Bob Hope is hilarious. You are not. Phyllis Diller still rates. You never will. I can’t believe how mad you make me. I was funny. Now I’m like you.
Who? Who Says the Skinny Broad is Hotter?
From the car, I’m watching the soccer mom jog down the main drag here in Anytown, Frozen Tundra USA. She is past me in a moment but I see she could stand to put on a couple of pounds. Wait a minute, wait a minute, don’t go on a man hating rampage yet. I’ve been watching women for over thirty five years now. I have experience. I know who needs to put on weight.
Ladies, Whoever told you that this is the ideal is not on your side. HE probably doesn’t like women at all. Probably the same dude selling little boy clothes to rich hausfraus in the city. What I’m putting down is he thinks THIS is hot. He is wrong.
Hell and I like Ann Coulter. I think she is funny. I would invite her to dinner (and force her to eat) but we only have four chairs in our dining room set. She is, regrettably, a scarecrow with good hair.
As a public service, I would like to present a more suitable ideal.
Fat…No. Big and bulky…No. Muscular…Yes. If she runs, it is probably very fast. Once again class, I drive the point home:
Oh and gentlemen, you probably already know this but the same goes for you.
Maybe you’re asking yourself this very minute, “Who made him the arbiter of physical beauty?” Well, we are all entitled to an opinion, are we not? Just that, I happen to be right in this case.
Day 3: Why I’m here.
Before the sun comes up, the dumbbell must come up. In various ways. Fly, Curl, Kickback, Repeat. Do some other iteration, repeat. Five more variations and repeat.
I am working my shoulders, biceps, and triceps. This is why I’m here. I want Tony to give me my arms back. By the end of 50 minutes, I can’t lift them. I feel aches in areas I forgot I had. A good thing demonstrated by my veins, already brought to life on the bicep, the underside of my forearms, and the anterior shoulder.
Imagine myself this summer with arms. I will be the talk of the forty/fiftysomethings. Vanity is what I fought for today. That’s not a bad thing. After the bodybuilding, I do the Ab Ripper X. I almost finish a couple of exercises. That’s better than my first try on day one. Progress, progress, progress.
Day 2: Feet Off Floor
Day Two brings Plyometrics. I am not first delivering a blow by blow of P90X, so I guess you knew that. I almost jumped, then I lunged, then I twist jumped, then I squat jumped. Then I did it again.
Lying I would be if I told you it was easy or I didn’t huff and puff. How did the Russkies and East Germans do this without a bucket? Clearly it is a unsolved mystery of the Cold War.
One of the fitness dudes has one leg. Outfugginstanding. Tony points out this fact to motivate us? I guess. It did. Even at my advanced age, no one legged dudes will out hop me.
When I’m done and sweaty and I can’t breathe anymore, I notice my knees don’t ache. Fancy that. I feel like I should go right back to bed but I’m only tired, not hurting.
¶ 1:26 PM2 comments
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
For the record
Christian Rock sucks. Gospel rocks. Bluegrass "religiony" is also awesome.
Two Years Under the Bar: Day 1, hating life but not the first or last time
You find yourself in the basement and you are afraid. But you’re not scared of the furnace devils. Oh no, that would be un-fuggin-reasonable. You see, you’re a rational mofo. You have a good reason for your fear. You are down here to work out. And the sad fact is you are old, inexperienced, and wondering what kind of a sick, motherfugger gets up at 5 in the morning to get all sweaty and shat. A sigh of desperation and an excited breath later, the DVD player is on. It is time to see what kind of a twinkle-toed pansy you are. The sad fact is you are a big one. Day One of P90X is a 50 some odd minute procedure (introduction) called “Chest and Back.” To those still unfamiliar with regimen, Tony Horton leads you and three fitness models through 12 exercises (done twice don’t you know) that consist mainly of push ups and pull ups. You struggle with the pushups but you get them done. Ugly but done. Pullups are a different matter. You find yourself jumping, putting your leg on a chair, a band, anything. You’re kipping and cheating like your suffering an epileptic seizure on the bar. Anything to get your double chin over that fuggin bar. Of course, the repetitions hover around a million and infinity. By the end of the first pass through the regimen, you wish your chest and back would fall off already. And that, dear reader, is what makes this man a big, fat pussy. You are a sweating, gasping for air, and thinking about retching. But something stops you. Youlook at your TV and see the chick fitness model is ready to go. All 110 pounds of her, perapred for more pain. You say to yourself, “This will not do.” You swallow your vomit and reattach your testicles. You get your big fat ass back in plank, ready for more pushing. You get your ass on the bar for more seizures. And this is just day one.
Two Years Under the Bar: Prologue
I am tired of: Knee injuries, Back pain, Looking skinny, until I take my shirt off, An inability to execute one pull up, Exerting greatly, for no gain, Of not changing despite the effort, Feeling older, Looking older, Doing older. Enter P90X. This better fugging work. I began a year ago.