On Being a Tremendous Pansy

Feel the mild, slightly spicy warming sensation.

I've gotten upset over the last week as, after every meal, my stomach seemingly distends outward, granting me what appears to be a "gut." I do not like this. I like being so skinny any and all muscle matter I have is clearly defined, all without that disgusting thing I hear about called "effort."

But, it occurs to me that if I start working out now that it's Winter, by the time I get bored again, it'll be Summer, and there is a much higher chance of sexy ladies being impressed with how I look shirtless if the weather and associated recreational activities are more amenable to walking around sans-overthings.

You see, I weighed myself the other day, after weeks of living more by, "I can't have fast food two days in a row," more than actual nutrition, and I had gained five pounds. This is, quite sadly, a not-insignificant percentage thereof. Much to my satisfaction, I them caught a week-long cold, and promptly lost all that weight, but the impetus has set in. I need to start lifting a little and doing sit-ups again. I don't care if I'm healthy, or strong, mind you; I just need to look good.

Case in point:

I pre-made some sandwiches and salads and ravioli this past week, and did eight minutes of sit-ups and crunches last night. Now I look toned again. That was it. Fitness trainers would loathe me. However, today I went bowling and I feel like I got hit by a small economy-class car. Bowling. It was eight games of all-you-can-bowl from 12:30 to 4, so alright, I swung a 12lb kettle iron about a hundred reps, but my wrist and back leg feel like they're trapped in tar and I just feel like that says quite a lot about my overall physical abilities right now.

I'll blame it on repetitive stress motions, but I'm going to get yelled at by my doctor when I finally get around to making an appointment in the coming weeks.

Seem to have cured my own ingrown toenail, though, so your move, healthy people.

Fidel Castro "In Good Health"

Oh, what a fun world I wake up to this morning!

Thank you, BBC!

As always, my news comes solely from tech blogs, and the BBC. Because no one's more fair and balanced in reporting American news stories than the Eastern hemisphere.

Apparently, Fidel Castro, former leader of communist Cuba, is not dying anytime soon.

"He could not even remember the last time he had a headache," says the article.

Other things Castro can't remember:

• His birthday
• Why the car keys were in the freezer
• Whatever happened to that nice Jack Kennedy fellow from up North.

On Being A Beta

This is going to sound like I'm very bad at disguising when I'm bragging–which is true; I'm very, very lousy when it comes to covering up how highly I regard myself in many respects, but mostly because I fear that if I ever sounded as modestly unmoved as I felt, I would believe it enough I might never convince myself again.

But in other, less depressing news:

I'm not sure how it happened, but I'm in another one of my "I am a sexy beast" stages. You just can't convince me otherwise. I see myself in the mirror at night and I'm more than a little impressed with what I'm seeing. Then I realize I do nothing and have changed nothing about my lifestyle to merrit this, and I love and hate myself a little bit more, wanting to purposefully brag so that others will hate me, because people hating you out of jealousy is the greatest feeling next to starring in a reality show on MTV.

The problem is I'm getting a little intimidated.

Not in an existential way, mind you. I'm not worried about the future, the upkeep on being a sexy person, nor the prospect of being more successful simply by virtue of being more attractive and then having to weigh that success against my own merits, forever wondering if the two are similar in kind enough to satisfy my own standards.

Really, I just catch my reflection in the bathroom and I'm worried that if I look at that guy funny he might beat me up.

I promise you, this is real. I am not making light of even a vague impulse merely to further the comedy routine, I really, truly feel a visceral fear of my own visage, because I'm so used to being easily fucked with and easily startle. Beta is putting in nicely, this is full-on Omega male behavior. If we were a pack of somethings, the females would hump me for dominance.

But now? Man, if I can keep up this B.S. front to you all long enough to really convince myself, my confidence might finally drop like a third, spiritual testicle that never quite descended.

And that could be pretty sweet.

Health Care Mini-Post

I joked a while back that all the couching I did during my flu was going to give me ripped abs.

Well, it might have specifically ripped my right oblique.

I never quite shook that cough. Basically, the stress of trying to coordinate a major career and housing shift made me susceptible to illness, which might have put a little liquid in my lungs. Not full-on pneumonia, but I think just enough phlegm to keep me coughing and perpetuate the whole nonsense. That in turn had me coughing so viciously when I lay down that I may have kind of sort of could have pulled a muscle in my side.

Seriously, it's like a nine year old hit my in the ribs with a softball. This is stupid.

Being the big-shot adult I am, with health care cards and all, I've got a doctor's appointment at 9:15 this morning, so I'll update you all with the hilarious results on my prescribed prodding.

With any luck, he'll tell me I need mind-altering medication and bed rest.

BREAKING: Chocolate Will Still Make You Fat, Fatty

I usually try to get my news from the BBC, or at least "The Daily Show." I figure that way everything's in perspective, admittedly left-leaning, but admittedly left-leaning. For the most, this is noted and an honest effort is made to report facts without opinion, until such time as opinion is obviously the topic at hand.

However, I am a bit saddened to see even the BBC report, as happens every few months, that chocolate is actually good for you. Moreover, that it "may" help "you" lose weight.

Thankfully, they do point out that correlation proves nothing of causation, simply that people who ate chocolate more frequently were typically slimmer than people who ate chocolate only occasionally, even while compensating for BMI and caloric intake.

1. Of course, this is kind of burying the lead when you substitute a new lead implying directly that the correlation may yield a direct linear causation, i.e. "Chocolate 'may help keep people slim.'" Great job.

And secondly,

2. Of course people who eat chocolate more often are on average slimmer than people who eat chocolate less often. We're skinny assholes.

BMI and caloric intake have nothing at all to do with how quickly your body can process those calories, other than to give you an estimation as a result, not an impetus. I can eat gobs of cocoa because I have a fast metabolism, thus I stay slimmer and determine that I can safely enjoy chocolate more frequently without running the risk of putting on weight.

Someone with a slower metabolism, but with an equal BMI and caloric intake to mine¹ will have to monitor what they eat rigidly to achieve the same results, and therefor not be able to enjoy such a delicious treat as often, lest they go completely elephant seal and loathe themselves into a tear-soaked pillow slumber.

Chocolate doesn't make you thinner. Being thinner lets you eat more chocolate. Now feel free to hate me while I finish off the last 4 servings of that Slice'n'Share one-pound Snickers bar I didn't share with anybody. (Amazing review here.)



¹Alright, impossible, since having a faster metabolism requires me to consume more calories to match your BMI, or conversely you to consume fewer to match mine.

Another Reason Someone Is Going to Oppose Gay Marriage

Via the BBC.

Somewhere, someone is seeing the continued healthy existence of more gay people as a negative ramification of marriage equality.

Personally, I like to see it as alleviating part of the burden placed on government funded clinics and an already over-taxed health care system.

But what do I know? Besides gay people, married people, doctors, and accountants, I mean.

How Skinny People Can Take Over the World

Noticing the type of people who seem to frequent the local Taco Bell, I'm starting to think those of us possessing speedy metabolisms should just go ahead and take control of society. Honestly, it was kind of like every person who walked into that place after me had just given up. On, like, everything.

I don't think it would be too hard. Really, we just need a little bit of a head start. I mean physically. If we try running as we go I don't think many of us would be caught. We can outrun rascal scooters, right? Seriously, it wouldn't even be hard. We might even be doing it right now and I just haven't gotten my invitation to the 3000 Calorie A Day Club. I suppose I might after today.

Here's my plan: we just keep selling unhealthy food. Not for a profit, not for status our our own health. No, we do it to make the fatties fatter. I figure eventually the incidence of heart attacks will skyrocket and anyone with glandular disorders and impulsivity issues will just be bred out of the gene pool.

Shouldn't take more than another 80 years, unless those health assholes save some chubsters along with us gorgeous, exomorphic types.

On Running II: The Runnenning

Well at least she's not fucking Kenyan.



Those of you who know me well know that I hate runners. Runners are terrible people. They think they are better than everyone else but they are not, and their smugness only makes their inevitable cardiopulmonary "event" that much more satisfying for the rest of us. I have sworn that I will never become a runner.

So yesterday I went running, guys.


Easily the worst decision I ever made. Worse than shower sexting, worse than building an entire playlist around two cross-genre covers of Miley Cyrus' "Party In the U.S.A." (actually a fantastic idea), worse than the time I tried to ollie a packet of duck sauce on the spine of a hardcover book onto my kitchen table without squishing it.

It started well enough. "It's just running for a while. I can run for a while," I thought. "I run all the time. I'll just be doing it without some other purpose. It'll be fine. I'll be great at it."

Man, I bought my first pair of basketball shorts since I was about twelve. I got powdered Gatorade mix to stick in my refillable water bottle. I found an old clip-on iPod case and my earbuds. I was going to head down to the high school track and be awesome. "I'll just run for the 30 minutes and figure out how far I went later."

Do you have any idea how awful an idea this was? Do you run? If yes, than you don't know. If you don't run, go out and try it. No, wait. Don't do that. It's a terrible idea.

It looked hopeful when I got their. Little 12 year olds on a skateboard and a couple of Razor scooters rode by me asking for high-fives. I figured I'd make their day and put some feeling into it, and for my trouble I was told that I was "cool" and asked to come talk to them and meet their wives. I believe by high-fiving them I completed some kind of "Sure, we'll marry you if you high five [x-number of] random strangers." The wives, for their part, told my my mustache was cool and looked good. (I do not need middle school skanks latching onto me. I look like enough of a pedophile as it is hanging around my old high school with a bachelor's degree and baggy shorts.)

I stretched, I loaded up my Party and Bullshit In the U.S.A. playlist and I set off.

Horrible idea. I have no idea how to run, but I guarantee you I did it wrong. Sure, I can sprint in a game. I do well. But I have no stamina. Zero. In the time it's taken my to write these last two paragraphs I could have started running, gotten tired and quit already. And running around a track is just worse. There is absolutely nothing to do but think about how lousy of an idea running is. Every single step imbues me with nothing more than the fervent desire to stop running. My only thought was of not feeling like this anymore.

So I backed off. I figured I did pretty well for a first lap. I did a whole circuit pretty fast. I past the walker mom and even the track kid already sweating his balls off. I should take walk to ease back and then start again a little slower. I took a half-lap walk, set my drink down in a shady, out of the way spot and resumed a brisker pace, intending to cycle through full-lap runs and half-lap walks. Get a nice little stagger pattern going.

I'm a fucking idiot. I kept telling myself. How can people do this? Why do people do this? This is the worst feeling ever. I want nothing more than to end this feeling immediately. So desperately. Maybe this is a wall? There's a wall these people break through and then it's good. Then you get the endorphins? Dolphins? Milhouse was the real dauphin. But he'll never be a meme … holy Christ I am about to pass out or throw up I need to get hidden in case that actually happens stop running you fucking lunatic.

So yeah, that happened. I got a whole half-lap in of my second heat before I was hit with shin splints, side cramps, chest pains, throat knives and all the good fun that comes with completely over exerting yourself without any proper prep or training. I tried to very calmly walk back to my drink, and then out the back gate of the track so that the little kids and their child brides wouldn't see my skulking away in shame and defeat. I rounded the front of the school and got cruised by some seventeen year old assholes in a busted-up El Camino who might have thought I was someone else. That or they just like idling next to shamed runners.

Moral of the story: running is a horrible, horrible thing and the only people who can actually do it are the kind of people to stupid to listen to their body saying, "Ow this fucking hurts stop it stop it now there has got to be a better way you are hurting me ow!"

For reference, I came home feeling light-headed, nauseated, and in terrible pain throughout my whole chestal region. Also my left shin for some reason. How far did I actually go? Well one lap plus two half-laps makes it a grand total of half a mile. In eight minutes. Give me a pool or a goddam bike any day of the week, brother.

Do you know what I did afterward to make myself feel better/punish the fuck out of running as a general concept? I ordered a large pizza. Half pepperoni, half cold mozzarella on top. With three pickles and a glass of milk. I ate five of them in the first hour. I'm going to eat the last three out of spite.

Running is for chumps.

Creatine Usage Logs

Day 1: Took single creatine pill before workout. Extra energy leads to double to triple normal routine. Felt like I should keep going but muscles stopped working briefly. (Possibly psychosomatic?) Took second pill after. Post-exercise "pump" of +1" to all measurements, lasts all night. Desperately thirsty.

Day 3: Continuing 2 pills daily. Measurements up 1.5" at all times. Energy steady. Consuming many carbs.

Day 6: Ate a loaf of bread as a snack. Hopefully does not overdoing it. +1.75 to most areas.

Day 9: +2.5" on average! Don't know why everyone isn't using creatine. Great thing.

Day 16: Working out about 2 hours daily. Have fallen behind on book. Look hot, though. Pecs are pretty good, arms are ripped, lats surprisingly bulky.

Day 23: Buying bread and pasta daily. Tapped savings for more weights and a new bench. Have nowhere to put it, but it's not like I walk through my room anyway.

Day 30: Chest and arms huge. Still wondering why no one else seems to try this.

Day 40: Can no longer see feet over pecs. Don't care. I can walk on my hands now.

Day 43: Attempted to masturbate. Could not locate testicles. Appear to have shrunken and ascended. Looking at this as a natural form of birth control? Best to stay positive.

Day 56: Working out most of waking day. Almost beach ready. Can just about fit into Ed Hardy shirts. Have become incapable of rolling over in sleep.

Day 65: Hard to sleep on back, but keep doing push-ups if sleep on stomach. Learning to adapt.

Day 73: Aggression is not out of control. I don't know what my friends are talking about. I killed plenty of hookers before I started taking creatine, didn't I?

Day 74: Killed TWO hookers today. Thinking maybe my friends have a point. Must think about it. Going to go out and find another hooker.

Day 86: Was approached to go on a date with Snookie for an episode of Jersey Shore. Figure I can get a free trip to the beach and maybe score some tail on the boardwalk.

Day 87: … Fucked Snookie. Ashamed. On camera. The Situation watched. I think he finished in her Bump-It.

Day 88: Flown back from Jersey overnight. Fractured Snookie's spine attempting to do lunges at inappropriate moment. MTV might be offering me spin-off.

Day 102: Chest is five feet around. Arms at 22 inches each. Furious they will not achieve two-foot status. Furiously curling. Up to 15 pills a day. MTV will not return my calls. Town is out of hookers.

Day 137: HULK SMAAAAAAASH!!!

Day ???: Woke up skinny again in puddle of green sweat wearing only ill-fitting, purple denim shorts. Appear to be in some large crater. Downed military craft all around me. Liv Tyler is saying something annoying. Am considering the benefits of wheat grass juice.

On Health Care

I don't usually complain about insane bureaucracy and horrible paradoxes or catch-22's when it comes to government programs. Frankly, I expect as much. Oh sure, I'll still rage rage against the dying of the light when it comes to actually deciding how that insane bureaucracy is run, but for the most part I tend to simply try to avoid the federal government.

Example: I paid my taxes this year. All 93¢ I owed.

Yes, it might have been more fun to waste hundreds of dollars in man hours forcing the IRS to come audit me, then causally tossed a dollar at my poor auditor and told him to keep the change, but I did legitimately owe the government 93¢. Plus, it's just as funny and spiteful to make them go through the all the regular work for such a paltry sum while I kick back and do nothing. (I'm lazy. Sue me.)


But sadly, sometimes I experience the bureaucracy in a way where I can't win or spite anyone and that makes me sad. See, I'm trying to get myself some health insurance.

Since I'm a writer I am self-employed and thus do not get medical coverage through my employer.

As I've yet to complete or sell what I am currently writing, I am technically also unemployed, an interesting dichotomy.

Moreover, since I've been "unemployed" for more than a year now, I cease to qualify for cheap health care from the state.


Essentially I am too rich to be forced to work and too poor for good health care. Additionally I am too healthy for emergency care but too fragile for an immortality exemption.

I mean I could easily get a part-time job and re-qualify for the cheap state care, but I'd really much rather sleep past noon every day and just be a famous author. With immortality. And maybe a cool haircut.

On Misleading Advertising

Does it bother anyone else that weight loss programs always seem to come with a side effect of giving all the "before" models a pronounced tan?

I feel like that's cancer.

I was going to use this photo, but frankly this girl is horribly Photoshopped and like half plastic to begin with.

On Fruit

This is why we can't have nice things.



Seriously, guys? Seriously?

We didn't have enough fucked up fruits and plants and shit lining our grocery store shelves already, we had to go and genetically splice strawberries with pineapples?

It's a strawberry. It's already delicious. You don't need to forcibly crossbreed it with a pineapple, admittedly already another delicious fruit, if not one with a somewhat jaded past. (I can't seem to find it, but I still feel at some point I've covered the history of the pineapple. Quick refresher: pine cones were called pineapples because they hung in pine trees like fruit. Then someone discovered a fruit, called in a pine-y apple and the two were called the same thing until some other guy said, "This is retarded. Let's just call the one that's actually a fruit an apple. The other one can be a cone or some shit.")

ANYWAY.

The point is we really didn't need this. Yeah, it sounds delicious and yeah, I'd love to get my hands on one and am willing to pay an exorbitant fee for it, but, guys. Guys. Really? Did we really need to make a bizarro-strawberry that tastes like a pineapple? It doesn't even taste like a combination of the fruits, which is an absolutely delicious grouping of flavors! It's just a very tiny pineapple with less peeling involved. (Which actually sounds wonderful. Maybe it's a fruit of convenience. You know, like those dog purses. Just slice up a few of these and a few real strawberries and voila, pretty fruit salad.)

Still, I really didn't need to deal with this in my life right now. You'd think it wouldn't affect me, but this is just one more act of humanity playing God that I'll need to justify in my world view.


And I mean I already feel like enough of an asshole when I open my fridge and put tomatoes into the little drawer marked "VEGETABLES" instead of the one that says "FRUIT."

On 420 and The Munchies

In honor of today's date, 4/20, the international day of smoking shit-tons of weed and getting high as a mother, I've decided to share a story I realized that, until now, I've somehow neglected to tell.

My friend Jay has wondered, every year around this time, whether Wendy's has April 20th circled on their calendars as their busiest day of the year.

Several years ago we attempted to put their "Double Your Beef For 89¢" policy to the test.

The thinking was simple:

• A Wendy's Classic Double (two 1/4 lb. beef patties) costs more than 89¢ more than a Wendy's Classic Single (only one 1/4 lb. patty). Therefore, every time someone ordered a Classic Single with Double Beef, Wendy's lost money.
• Would "THEY" allow a patron to order their (then) largest sandwich, a Classic Triple, with Double Beef, thereby losing several dollars in the transaction?

After much speculation, we tested the theory. Jay bellied up to the counter and asked the young albino at the register if he could receive a Classic Triple, but with Doubled Beef. The man was dumbfounded.

"I- I don't know," the boy said. "Like, I really don't know if the computers can do that. We can … we can try?"

So they tried. The young man raised his hand and pressed into the keypad tentatively the button for a Classic Triple Meal, then, as if going in for his first play at second base and fully expecting to get slapped, brought his pointer down on the key marked "DBL BF."

A pleased chirp sounded from the machine. Everyone eased their cringing and opened an eye to peak down at the computer. The world had not imploded. The bill did not divide by zero. Everyone was safe.

"Oh. Okay. Awesome," the albino sighed. "Medium or large?"

"Oh, large," Jay replied.

"Any drink?"

"Uh, Coke? No ice?"

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Yeah, a small frosty and a five-piece nuggets?"

The albino choked on a giggle.

"And can I get barbecue and honey mustard for those?"

"Sure," the boy still giggled, trying to remain professional as he read back the order. "Oh, did you want cheese on that?" his smirk was hard to hide.

"Oh, yeah! Thanks!" Jay exclaimed. At this our young albino friend nearly fell over. Tears huddled in the corners of his eyes as he was paid by a group of men each chipping in a few dollars for Jay's daring meal.

The rest of us began to order as Jay's pound-and-a-half of sizzled beef was prepared. In the middle of one order the little Ecuadorian woman working the grill came out. Standing just 4'10" or so, she warbled to her pale companion, pointing at Jay's order glowing green on her progress screen.

"Hoe meny patty he wan?"

"Uh, he wants six."

"Fo?" She held up four minute fingers.

"No, six."

"Yees?"

"Six."

"Yees?"

"SIX." We held up extra fingers. We said "seis" in our limited, high school Spanish accents, put up three fingers on each hand and then smashed them together in mime of a delicious nuclear fission.

"SEECE!?" the lady finally understood? "He wan seece patty?! No! No," she turned to Jay, "You cannoh hah seece patty. Fo," she held up four fingers again. "You can hah fo patty."

We argued on principle; the computer accepted the order, the ad held no restrictions. We demanded our monstrosity burger.

The assistant manager came out. The Manager manager came out. He claimed the deal only applied to Classic Singles and Doubles, then invoked the participating locations clause that supersedes all custom orders.

We were informed we could have a Triple, a Double doubled, or nothing at all.

Assholes, we each chipped in another dollar each and ordered Jay two Triples.


When we sat down, Jay pealed the top bun off one sandwich and the bottom off the other, slamming them together and finally making the Classic Sextuple we had all craved.

As he ate, Jay found the condiments began melting the buns off his mega-burger. In fact he burned through both sets of buns, beef juice and lettuce water dripping down his hands and leaving him with nothing but a meaty, moist collection of ketchup-and-cheese flavored goo.

The idea to impale it all with an extra straw was, I believe, my idea. Forcefully skewered, Jay regained the use of one hand to quench his thirst and wipe the beef leavings from his face. With no other patrons in the restaurant, the wait staff looked on in fear and amazement.

As Jay sat, staring at the last few bites, Dean said the following:

"Jay! I had to be home ten minutes ago and I still have to drop you off first."

"Okay," Jay said, eyes bleary and sweating beef.

"No," said Dean, "You live in the opposite direction. I;m going through the drive-thru to get my food and then I'm honking. If you're not out there in thirty seconds, I'm leaving."

"Alright … Dude!"

"What?" Dean was half-way out the door.

A smile crept over Jay's meat-intoxicated face. "Get me a five-piece?"


For the last five bites, Jay got into a rhythm of eating, swallowing, and then setting the remainder down to go into the bathroom just in case he was going to throw up the whole mess. Shockingly, this never happened and Jay finished his meal to the applause of all his friends and everyone behind the counter at Wendy's.


The point of this story, kiddies, is you can eat absolutely insane, incredible things without ever getting stoned.

But why start a fire with twigs when you've got a perfectly good lighter in your pocket?

Sandwich Alternatives to the KFC Double Down

I can't believe I actually got two blogs out of this monstrosity.


Sandwich Alternatives to the KFC Double Down:

• The Blackjack: 5 ounces of garlic mashed potatoes held between two 8 oz. Black Angus strip steaks, marinated in Jack Daniels BBQ sauce and fire grilled to perfection.
  
  
• The Russian Roulette: a Wendy's Classic Triple with "Double the Beef" option; six 1/4-lb (precooked wt.) all-beef patties, one of which is infused with a randomly selected dipping sauce for the extra adventurous eater. Served with two 5-piece nuggets and a large Coke (no ice). [Also called "The Jay O'Neill."]
  
  
• The Slot Player: a $3 buffet voucher good for any cold sandwich, small soft drink or juice and any small bag of chips or an apple. Includes triple-cherry cobbler.
  
  
• The Prize Fighter: a super-heavy weight 88 oz porterhouse, served with absolutely nothing but your own sweat as it drips, beef-scented from your brow down onto your plate.
  
  
• A heart attack sandwiched between a couple of mild strokes.
  

Things Which Are Only Appropriate to Say In Bed Or While Working Out

Things Which Are Only Appropriate to Say In Bed Or While Working Out:

• "You really want to feel this."
  
  
• "Feel how tight that is."
  
• "Put your hands under your buttocks."
  
  
• "Both legs up in the air … that's it!"
  
  
• "None of these moves will hurt you if you do them right."
  
  
• "It's only eight minutes a day!"
  
  and I'm almost afraid to say it, but:
  
  
• "Do you feel the burn?!"
  
  
  
  

On School Uniforms

I just saw one of those half-commercials that get played in the five seconds of dead air between one nation-wide commercial and a short local one. This one was for, I'm pretty sure, "BestDegree21.com," a proprietor of online college degree-like things.

To their defense, the commercial itself was not poorly executed. A young, sexy girl of what was apparently the half-Asian persuasion, clad in pajamas and a spaghetti strap tank top in sensuous magenta lay on her stomach in bed, feet curled up and chatting with me like discussing getting my bachelor's degree over the internet is her favorite type of foreplay.

All believable.

Except she said the following before getting cut off by an iO Digital Cable ad:

"Every day, thousands of college students attend classes in their pajamas … over the internet!"

Now don't get me wrong, this is entirely true and I would buy a full new wardrobe of pajamas if I thought that's what this girl wanted of me. But the problem is every day thousands of college students attend classes in their pajamas in public. Yes, many colleges have online-courses, but pretty much any class that takes attendance before 3 p.m. is guaranteed to contain at minimum 5% students in cotton pants that don't possess pockets but do possess a draw string.

Of these students, 40% are guys who have already or will later that day be running down campus to the free gym. 18% are overweight girls too tired from their futile efforts to get in shape to truly care anymore about their appearance on a day-to-day basis. The remaining 42% are insanely attractive sluts recovering from nights of debauchery where their drink of choice was more accurately described by its color than by an actual name or its component ingredients.

I miss college.

On Health Care Reform

Well, it's official.

Barring completely possible fowl-ups, my country has signed law to give nearly everyone affordable health care.

But what does this really mean for me, the out of work college graduate with an arts degree?

Thankfully, The Washington Post tells me what I've been wondering:

Yes, it's gratifying to see the words "You will not be penalized."

It almost makes up for having to tell The Washington Post that I already have no insurance and earn $0 per year.


On the up-side, they can't fine me for not having insurance if I'm too poor to buy insurance.

On Running

A friend of mine told me today that I should go running.

I've mentioned my health kick, so this wasn't entirely unexpected, but surprisingly I was just thinking about this yesterday. Running is the one line I won't cross, which is crazy because it's great for your core, stamina and cardio-pulmonary systems. It's pretty rad.

But here's the limit I started with: just weights.

That was my rule. Then I added crunches and sit-ups, which I hate but are good exercises. They don't require any extra equipment and I can still do them in my house on my own time. Fine. So just weights and no-gear routines. No crazy douchebag supplements.

Well I drink milk with whey protein after now. Also, I've started switching to a much healthier diet with more protein, less fat and fewer calories. Technically, I'm only a little douche. I'm not taking anything with creatine or anything. There's barely any vitamins in what I got. It's just 100% whey protein heavy in amino acids. Considering I only drink organic skim milk, I figure this gets me all the fun of whole milk plus some.

So this is my final Maginot Line: don't be a douchebag runner.

You see I just hate dickball runners more than any other type of health nut. More than bikers, more than male yoga master, more than anything.

At least a musclehead has a respectable goal; he wants to have the best muscles, the biggest, the strongest, whatever. He wants to get jacked as fuck.

Runners just want to hold it over you.

"Oh, you can dead lift 480 lbs? That's nice. I'll be sure to remember that when I'm 80 and still running."

Fuck. That. Shit.

I hate running. Why the fuck would I want to be running when I'm 80?! For that matter, I'm already living past 80. Short of an accident, my genetics and standard rates for increased life expectancy say I should live to be about a hundred and twenty. Minimum.

Runners think they're in shape. They're not. Their muscles are stringy, their skin is a leathery hide worn by the elements endured from year-round running. Their knees are just doomed. In fairness, the extra strain will probably weaken their hearts and vascular systems. Yes, dying a renal failure in a hospital bed at 83 if much better than having your heart explode instantly when you're 67.

I'm pretty sure there's a happy medium for most people, but fuck that. I've got awesome genetics. Running is for regular asswipes trying to keep up with me and feel better about themselves

My friend said "If I see an 80 year old man running, I'm like 'Damn, fuck that dude,'
because I'm pissed he's in better shape than me."

Well NORMAL people think, "Look at that fucking asshole in his biking shorts and white Nikes. I hope he gets hit by a fucking car." That's why runners are worth the most points when you hit them out driving. (Fat people are negative points because they're harder to not hit.)

So no, no I will not become a runner. I'm getting in shape to be healthy and attractive, not to feel better than everyone around me. For that I can always just buy a Prius.

On Gyms

I'm starting to plateau in the kind of results I can see lifting weights at home, so I'm putting some thought into joining a gym.

Many people are embarrassed to start hitting the gym because of how they look, but I'm more concerned with looking stupid because I have no idea how to perform any of the exercises.

This, I gather, is why people who aren't in shape tend to go to the 24-hour chain gyms in the middle of the night.

Everyone seems to think this way. Go to the gym when it's late and no one's around.

If that's the case and everyone's there at midnight I'm going to start going to the gym at three in the afternoon when no one's really around.

On Fitness

Times It Is Appropriate To Work Out

• When your doctor tells you to
• Before swimsuit season
• Before Spring Break/vacation
• When taking off your glasses to look at yourself naked in the mirror no longer brings with it the same thrill of positive body image it once did

Times It Is Not Appropriate To Work Out

• While consoling your girlfriend at her grandfather's funeral
• In a crowded elevator
• At weddings
• Any time The Jersey Shore is on T.V.