Saturday, April 16, 2005

Saturday Morning post-caffiene fueled, after work out drivel:

I got nothing. Nada. Zilch. Well, that’s not true, I still got a cold. The cold from hell. It’s like somebody snuck into my house, opened the top of my skull and poured in a bottle of Elmer’s glue.

Hey, I gots me an idea, I surely does. Why don’t you send me a joke, Slateens and Nuggies? And none of this “Knock Knock” flank steak bullsh*t, go with the London broil. Yeah, treat yourself*. Give me a joke you wrote. If yah’s got the guts. Heh? Does yah?

Man, oh man, it happened again. There I am at the gym this morgan, trying to work out with a head cold. There I was desperately trying to keep up to the Stones’ “Monkey Man” on my iPodimus, desperately in need of a blast of energy when it happens: a guy well over 40 walks in wearing skin tight lycra bike shorts. Now I know how Butch and Sundance felt when they ran out into that Bolivian courtyard for the last time.

Like I’ve said, not even bringing up the entire lumpy ass issue, the worst part of those shorts is that they are like serious road kill. You don’t want to look, but you have to see if it’s as bad as you thought. Is that what I think it is? Ewwwww. The only thing worse than a guy who looks like he’s toting a dead rodent in those nasty drawers is a guy who looks like he isn’t.

It's a good look on no man. No man. Can I get a righteous amen, one time?

And one more gym related item. Those young girls who wear those little shorts with the name of something – their school, team, town, whatever – right across the butt? I contend that is OK to read that name without feeling like a total perv. In fact, you can read it, re-read it and check for possible spelling mistakes.

*That’s right, uh huh, I hung a “Cabin Boy” reference on you.