Gym Etiquette

I go to the gym a lot. I see a bunch of weird stuff that goes on at the gym, and hear even more from a few of my workout buddies. I'm pretty easy going and can tolerate a lot, but some things I have to draw the line at.

Here are three rules of etiquette that should be followed to make your workout, as well as other patrons, more enjoyable.

1. Don't stand in front of the mirror with your shirt pulled up rubbing and checking out your stomach. You know who you are middle aged, Mediterranean-looking guy. You're not sexy. You don't have washboard abs. You have the gut of an eight months pregnant hairy gorilla.

2. Wear deodorant. You're at the gym, you're going to sweat and probably smell a little bit. But there's a big difference between a little workout stink and the smell of rotting meat boiling in baby diarrhea.

3. Steam rooms and saunas in the men's locker room are for steaming and sauna-ing, not giving each other blowjobs. I've never actually seen this, but my friend did. However, I did see a guy start jerking it while in the steam room. That was the last day I ever felt like a steam and the first day I started changing in the handicapped toilet stall like an insecure junior high kid who didn't have his pubes yet. Remember, the gym in the middle of the day isn't the time to act out your favorite porn scene from Sauna Suck-offs 4.

The Pork Shop

Hello loyal readers (I think there are only two of you). I've only been doing a post a month, but I'm going to try and increase that to at least one a week.

I just back from vacationing in Arizona at my sister's house. While I was there we found the most magical place on earth just down the street from her house. We went to a party on July 4th, and for the party this woman made some of the most delicious pulled pork I have ever tasted. I complimented her on her pork-pulling capabilities and she said, "Thanks. But I didn't make it. I bought it just like this from the Pork Shop."

Me: "The pork what?"

Her: "The Pork Shop. It's a little store just down the road that sells all kinds of pork products."

It was like a thousand bazookas went off in my face, a light beamed down from the heavens, and angels started singing "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Just for some background: I LOVE PORK PRODUCTS!!! It's my favorite animal to eat of all time.

Immediately after hearing about The Pork Shop, I turned to my wife and sister and told them we have to go there first thing in the morning.

I woke up salivating the next morning and almost didn't put pants on to save time getting out the door and into the car.

The Pork Shop sits just off the side of a dusty desert road. As we pull into the small dirt and gravel parking lot, the dust clears to reveal a small beige box with big letters stating "THE PORK SHOP" (nothing too impressive so far). A quick glace down and that's when I see the various murals of pigs on the windows and I realize that this a place of dreams, a pig Disneyland if you will.

We step through the door and are greeted by the succulent smell of all of the most spectacular pork products I could ever imagine, and a youngish-looking man with a very large and impressive handlebar moustache. I knew, at that very instant, I had found one of the most special places on the planet.

I now know that anytime I visit my sister, the first thing I want to do when I get off of the plane is go straight to The Pork Shop.

Unfortunately, we forgot our camera on the trip, but I found some pictures of The Pork Shop on the eGullet Forums if you want to take a look at a slice of heaven.

Still Alive!

To the one or two people that read this crapfest. I'm still here, just really busy. I'll try and get some new posts up soon. Before I go, I want to leave you with this tidbit.

I went to the Indy 500 a couple of weekends ago. It was a blast. Because of the rain delay, there was nothing to do except stand around for three hours and drink...and look at floppy, lop-sided Indiana tits. Well, technically they were from Kentucky, but that doesnt' really matter now does it? If you went to the 500, I'd like to know how it went.

The comments are open. Give me some feedback. Tell me you hate me and want to smack me a around a bit. At least I'll know you're out there.

I Rule the Pelvis!

I was bored today and decided to look up my zodiac sign. Being born in November, I am a Scorpio. According to this site, "Scorpio governs the pelvis." This explains a lot, as I have been known to do most of my thinking with my little head instead of my big one. Also, I have been known to make girls orgasm just by thinking about it.

"Right. Whatever. What a douche!" That's what your thinking right now; but remember, I govern the pelvis. So before you start getting angry and jealous because you're, to quote my friend Craig, hung like a tuna can, Scorpios are also more susceptible to pelvic ailments, including priapism. What's priapism?

Well, priapism is the medical term for a painful, chronic boner. It's not soothing to read that at anytime I could pop a 4 hour or more stiffy. Most guys would probably think this would be awesome. But unless your job is a porn star, think how uncomfortable it would be to do anything outside of sex with a raging semi.

But I guess that's the price you have to pay when you rule the pelvis.

Sneaky Peeper

I was over at my brother-in-law's house for a "party" awhile back. It was actually me, my wife's two brothers, and their cousin. We were hanging out, playing video games, and watching TV when eventually some girls showed up. My wife's brother, Bryan, and the three girls sat at the kitchen table talking while the rest of us watched TV. After about an hour, Bryan took one of the girls upstairs. After about another 45 minutes, I started to get upset that Bryan was being a bad host because the other girls were left downstairs and looked bored (since I'm married I couldn't help them out with their boredom the way I wanted, and my famous penis shadow puppet show was out due to inadequate lighting)...so I decided to cock block Bryan.

I got a ladder from the garage and decided to peep through Bryan's bedroom window. [NOTE: Do not peep on brother-in-law when he's making out with a hairy ape. It was cornea searing.]

Regardless of the condition of my eyes...mission accomplished. When they found out I was watching (after some banging on the window), ape tits left the building.

Next time Bryan, let me know your taking a girl to your room so I have time to hide in the closet. That's what a good host does.

Amazing Aerial Acrobatics...or, How My Friend Was Run Over Walking to Work

It's funny how people will tell you something and you ask how it happened, thinking its going to be an awesome story, and it turns out to be really lame. For instance, my friend Carrie calls me and says, "I got hit by a car today!" I'm immediately thinking, "Holy shit...that's awesome." But of course what I say isn't necessarily what I'm thinking. So I say, "Oh my god! Are you OK? How did it happen?"

[At this point I'm hyping myself up for the best story ever. How many times do you get hit by a car walking down the street?]

Carrie: "I'm fine. Just a little sore and I banged my knee."
Me: "Well, at least you're OK. So...so...how did it happen?"
Carrie: "I was crossing the street and this guy turned the corner, didn't see me, and ran into me. I put my hand on his hood and said 'whoa buddy' and kind of rolled off the side of the hood and onto the ground."
Me: "What!?! That's it? ... That was lame. I'll call you later."

What a disappointment. Here's how I would have told the story, regardless of how it happened.

"This guy was weaving through traffic as I started to cross the street. I was few steps from the curb when the car decides to turn and is now headed right at me going eleventy billion miles an hour. I had just enough time to take off my shoe and throw it at his windshield, but it didn't work; he was still barrelling right at me. I had to think fast. From years of being in the high school pom squad I developed almost superhuman leg strength. Just as the car was about to turn me into a spot on the pavement I launched myself into a double toe touch. The car came screeching to a halt right under me. I landed on the hood of the car in a perfect tuck position...but when I tried to climb down, I got my shoe caught on the windshield wiper, tripped, and fell off the car and banged my knee on the pavement. It was so clumsy and I was soooo embarrassed. I went to the hospital to get my knee checked out, had sex with the doctor and ER nurse, and my boss gave me the rest of the day off."

Yes, much better.

My Bad Wife

My best friend Ryan had emailed by wife last week and my wife never emailed him back. He sent her a reminder today and she emailed him back apologizing and saying she was a bad wife. I asked, "Why does that make you a bad wife? Shouldn't it just make you a bad person?" In her infinite wisdom, my wife replies, "Well, he's your friend and it was about you. And if I'm a bad wife, then I'm only bad to one person. But if I'm a bad person, then I'm bad to everyone. So I'd much rather be a bad wife then a bad person."

'Til death do us part...dammit!

The Jugs at Jolly Harbor

If you're ever in Antigua, go to the beach at Jolly Harbor (absolutely beautiful). And if you were there on the afternoon of September 20, 2006, you saw my wife's titties. It happened like this:

After performing aerials the likes no one has ever seen...on a wave runner...through jelly fish infested waters (I shit you not!), my wife and I headed back to the beach. I went for a swim and my wife went shell hunting. About 10 minutes after I got in the water, the waves started to increase in size and frequency, crashing with quite a bit of force against the shell cover beach. My wife, too engrossed in the hunt, failed to see a wave that had been hunting her Midwest pastiness. It crashed into her legs, buckled her knees, and took her down to the ground. She got up after being hit by two subsequent waves and calming herself from laughing.

Now, you'd think my wife would have learned her lesson from the first crippling blow...but that's not my wife. After a few minutes a mammoth wave, one of the biggest of the day, came rouring past me, clearly with its sights on my unsuspecting wife. I gave a quick shout of warning...but it was too late. She turned and faced the wave head on, ready for battle. The wave hit my wife with all its might, but she dug her feet in the sand and held her ground...except...she forgot to hold her top and the wave ripped it down, flashing her boobies to everyone on the beach, including a 12-year-old kid (who at that moment had the best family vacation ever). Congradulations sweetheart--you've made it into an adolescent boys spank bank.

Yogurt Love

Over the past year or so I've developed an intense love of yogurt. It may stem from me becoming somewhat of a health nut and because yogurt is sweet and creamy and tastes like it should be a naughty, slap-some-fat-on-my-ass dessert, but it's nutritious and good for you. My favorite is by far Yoplait's Mixed Berry...very scrumptious indeed.

However, I've been having a problem with my Yogurt for some time, a problem very much akin to the most feared male deficiency...premature ejaculation. Or, in my case, what I like to call an "opening yogasm." Every time I shake my yogurt up and peel back the top, a little spurt of yogurt shoots out. It gets all over my hands and sometimes on my clothes. I finally learned to open it facing away from me, but it still gets all over my desk.

Maybe I'm too excited when I know I'm going to get my yogurt and I shake it up too much beforehand. Then, when I know it's time to stick my spoon in, all the longing and built up pressure bursts out at once and I end up with sticky stuff all over my hands and a sense of disappointment that I wasted such good yogurt.

I don't know...maybe I should stop shaking it beforehand and just stick my spoon in and stir it around for awhile.

But sometimes I just can't wait that long.

5 Things I Thought Would Change After Marriage

I've been married for almost two months now, but I've lived with my wife for over two years. Here are a few things I thought would change after marriage.

1. I would be able to keep some of my stuff. (No. I threw out everything down to my last pair of underwear and had to start from scratch.)

2. There would be more sex! (Just kidding...that was over the day I proposed.)

3. Introduction of sex toys. (Yes. My wife bought me a pocket vagina so we wouldn't have to do it any longer. Now jerking off while she sleeps is twice the fun.)

4. Women would find me more attractive because I'm "off limits" and they know I can commit. (This ring around my finder is like a pop-up blocker for women...and my penis.)

5. Life would be greener on the other side. (Yes, for about a foot, then drops off into a bottomless pit of regret and sorrow. If you walk that fine line, it's sunny and green. Cross it just a bit and you can kiss your ass goodbye...as well as that hand-held vagina.)

Alternative Bachelor Parties

I read this article in the Chicago Tribune today about alternative bachelor parties. This guy wrote in with his plan: go to a ball game, dinner at ESPN Zone, and then out to a bar or strip club. Typical bachelor party. However, he wanted advice on alternatives in case they couldn't go to the ball game. Well, the article proceeds to prescribe facials and cooking classes. WHAT!!!

My bachelor party is coming up later this year and if I told my friends I wanted to get a facial and go to a group cooking class here's what would happen.

1. Get asked if I was gay by everyone...and start to question it myself.
2. Have my man card permanently revoked.
3. Tell my fiance to find another man--a real man--and move to Tibet and be a eunuch in some Buddhist temple.

FACIALS AND COOKING CLASS...WTF!?!

All bachelor parties don't have to be about alcohol abuse and naked chicks, but let's face it...the best ones are.

As for possible alternatives: go to the batting cages; go to a boxing gym, pad up, and beat the shit out of each other; have a poker tournament; and so on and so on. But whatever you do, don't get a fucking facial...pansy.

If the Right Person Farts...It's Headline News

I watch the news every morning while I eat my breakfast. But today I decided that I wasn't going to watch news on TV anymore. Why? Because the media is ridiculous. All that was on this morning was how the VP Dick Cheney shot a guy while hunting and wasn't releasing any information and how this was a complete outrage to the media. Who cares? This kind of thing happens all the time. When Jim-Bob shot Billy-Bob in the ass earlier this year while squirrel hunting, nobody asked Jim-Bob why he wasn't answering any questions about the state of Billy-Bobs ass. And what about the Olympics! If I hear another word about Kwan and her disappointing withdrawal from the Olympics, I'm going to vomit lots of dirty words in the vicinity of children and old people. Where were the news cameras when I had torn cartilage in my shoulder and couldn't play rugby anymore? Now that would have been good TV--me at the doctor's office asking if I'll ever get to use my arm and make sweet love to Francine again.

Anyway, since the news has been so crappy lately, I've decided that instead of watching the news while eating breakfast. I'd go around the neighborhood and read the paper while defecating in peoples driveways. Then wipe my ass with the newspaper. At least that news is good for something.

Harassment Training Day

I had harassment training today at work. If you work for my company, you take 1-2 hours out of your busy day, go to a meeting, read the same policy every year, watch a video, have a group discussion, sign a paper saying you've read the company policy, and then go back to work. I can see going through this training when you first start at a new company...but every year? I've worked for this company for over 2 years. If I haven't sexually harassed anyone yet, what's the point in going through the training every year?

Actually, I'm waiting for my 5-year anniversary. Then I'm going to start harassing the shit out of everybody. I'm going to start telling the women to dress more sexy, hand out autographed photo copies of my ballsack, ask the gay guys if they want to play a game of grab ass at lunch, and challenge the Asian people to a math off.

And as for advances on yours truly, I get a kick out the mailroom lady checking my ass out every time I walk by and saying, "Mmmm...hmmm!" And asking her how she's doing that day and she says, "I'm fine. How are you?" And I say, "I'm fine." And she says, "You bet your ass you're fine!" Or, when she staight up says, "What's up sexy!"...Classic.

If you feel you need a little harassment training check out this funny harassment video and be a better person.

The Train is Smelly

I'm not a racist person, and definitely don't like to place people into stereotypes. I don't like it when I tell people that I was in a fraternity in college and they automatically assume that I was a cocky, drunk, womanizing asshole all the time. (Actually, it was mostly on the weekends.)

Having inserted this disclaimer about myself, I'd like to now state that not all, but a majority of the Indian people that ride the train with me in the morning...stink.

I get on the train where it starts it's route and there are only a few people in my car. Since it's an express, there are two stops along the way. Now, when I get on the train, it smells like a train (pleather, plastic, metal, etc.) After the Route 59 and Naperville stops the train is packed (usually standing room only), and it smells like curry, moth balls, and dirty clothes. Thankfully, and contrary to popular belief (and when I say popular belief, I'm repeating what an Indian friend of mine said parts of India smell like), it's not a BO or rotting meat smell.

I realize there is a culture gap and that many of these people are from different backgrounds with different beliefs, customs, and smells. To help the smelly people become more acclimated to America, I've constructed the following guide. Since they don't have a BO smell, I'll skip the basics like taking a shower and wearing deodorant (they seem to have that one down). However, I will stress washing your hair more than once a month.

1. Wash hair at least every other day.
2. Wear clothes once, then wash. Blue jeans are the only exception (1-3 uses, then wash).
3. Wash clothes in laundry detergent...not chicken broth (Note: curry is not a fabric softener).
4. Spritz on a little cologne or perfume if laundry detergent is not available.
5. Keep the cooking smell out of your clothes (ie, don't cook dinner in the closet, open a window while cooking, use the vent over the stove, and/or cook naked).
6. Don't use moth balls. They make you smell like shit and are toxic (moth balls contain naphthalene, which is poisonous).

Follow these six easy steps and you'll be smelling like Joe or Susy America on the train and people will stop calling you the "smelly Indian guy".

Mad-lib

I haven't done a mad-lib in awhile and found one here. Below are my answers and the following story.

Your name: Bobo Snuggles
A neurological disorder: Dirty Word Vomit Syndrome
Any country: Slutland
Adjective: funky
Color: poop
Noun: jock strap
Color: crusty
Animal: liger
Adjective: Guatemalan
Type of transportation: lap rocket
Number: 77
Adjective: pee-stained
City: Herpetown
Drink: Gorilla Fart (shot of Bacardi 151 rum and Wild Turkey 101 bourbon whiskey)
Sise: quadruple extra large
Adejective: hunky
Adjective: rootin' tootin'
Shape: hexagonal
Word ending in -ing: diving
Liquid: lemonade
Number: 0.99991



Bobo Snuggles was one of the top neuroscientists in the world. Whatever it took, Bobo Snuggles would find a cure for Dirty Word Vomit Syndrome. Today, Bobo Snuggles was deep in the jungle of Slutland looking for a funky, poop plant.

Bobo Snuggles picked up the funky, poop plant called the jock strapvitum. As Bobo Snuggles placed the jock strapvitum in a plastic bag, the bushes moved. Out jumped a crusty liger. Frightened, Bobo Snuggles ran through the jungle of Slutland to a Guatemalen lap rocket.

It was a good thing that the lap rocket was fast. Bobo Snuggles made it to the Slutland airport in only 77 minutes. With the jock strapvitum safe in a pee-stained backpack, Bobo Snuggles was headed back to the laboratory in Herpetown. So Bobo Snuggles relaxed and ordered a Gorilla Fart.

Finally, Bobo Snuggles arrived in Herpetown. It was time to get to work. Bobo Snuggles had a quadruple extra large lab at the itchy University of Herpetown. Would the jock strapvitum plant have an effect on nerve cells? Could it be used to treat Dirty Word Vomit Syndrome? Bobo Snuggles was going to find out.

Bobo Snuggles looked through the rootin' tootin' microscope. The hexagonal nerve cells (neurons) in the dish were diving...that was a good sign. After grinding the jock strapvitum and soaking it in lemonade for 0.99991 minutes, Bobo Snuggles added it to the dish. With amazement, Bobo Snuggles saw the neurons grow! Could this be it? Could this be used to help people with Dirty Word Vomit Syndrome?

Best Laid Plans Go to Waste

I decided to do something today I would never have done in the past...make plans for Valentine's Day more than two days beforehand. This is totally unheard of, considering that for some reason I despise this holiday with a heated passion hotter than a 1000 suns. Regardless, I know that my fiance expects me to do something nice.

So I made plans and told my fiance that she needs to pick me up on Valentine's Day at the train station near her work at a certain time. Now, most people would probably be excited about the prospect of a surprise rendezvous point and excursion, and would want to know the destination...but not really because they wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.

Not my Kelly.

After sending the mysterious email about picking me up at the train station, she immediately calls me (sounding annoyed) and asks why I need her to pick me up at the train station. "It's a surprise," I said. "Do you want to ruin it?" Kelly replies (like I'm majorly inconveniencing her), "No. I guess not. I'll pick you up."

In light of our conversation, I've decided to change our plans just to piss her off. Instead of the romantic evening I've prepared I'm going to have her drive to the train station and then drive us home (40 min), where I will prepare a dinner of mac & cheese and hotdogs. Then I will sit on the couch, watch TV, and scratch my balls for a couple of hours. After that, I'll excuse myself to the bathroom to rock the kasbah for 2 minutes with a wad of tissue and a titty mag. After that I'll be so tired I'll have to go straight to bed...right after I look at Kelly and say, "What is today? Oh, right. Happy Valentine's Day. (Yaawwwn) Goodnight."

Joke

A couple were invited to a swanky family masked fancy dress Halloween party. The wife got a terrible headache and told her husband to go to the party alone. He, being a devoted husband, protested, but she argued and said she was going to take some aspirin and go to bed and there was no need for his good time to be spoiled by not going. So he took his costume and away he went.

The wife, after sleeping soundly for about an hour, woke without pain and as it was still early, decided to go to the party. As her husband didn't know what her costume was, she thought she would have some fun by watching her husband to see how he acted when she was not with him.

So she joined the party and soon spotted her husband in his costume, cavorting around on the dance floor, dancing with every nice "chick" he could and copping a little feel here and a little kiss there. His wife went up to him and being a rather seductive babe herself, he left his new partner high and dry and devoted his time to her. She let him go as far as he wished, naturally, since he was her husband.

After more drinks he finally whispered a little proposition in her ear and she agreed, so off they went to one of the cars and had passionate intercourse in the back seat. Just before unmasking at midnight, she slipped away and went home and put the costume away and got into bed, wondering what kind of explanation he would make up for his outrageous behaviour.

She was sitting up reading when he came in, so she asked what kind of time he had. "Oh, the same old thing. You know I never have a good time when you're not there." Then she asked, "Did you dance much?"

He replied, "I'll tell you, I never even danced one dance. When I got there, I met Pete, Bill Brown and some other guys, so we went into the spare room and played poker all evening." "You must have looked really silly wearing that costume playing poker all night!" she said with unashamed sarcasm. To which the husband replied, GO HERE FOR PUNCHLINE

Punchline

"Actually, I gave my costume to your Dad, apparently he had the time of his life."

Loss for Words

Usually I have something stupid to write about, trying to be funny. But today I'm at a loss for words. Maybe because I've been so busy with work I can't think of anything else. Maybe it's the sterile walls that surround me, except for the piece of paper I have stuck to my bulletin board that says "Danger! Giant Mutant Lizard Seen in Vicinity" and has a picture of Godzilla destroying a passenger airline. (God! I'm such a dork sometimes.) Maybe it's because I haven't seen a sunny day in two weeks. Maybe, just maybe, it's because I shaved my balls the other day and the hair is starting to grow back and it really itches.

Maybe it's because I'm 28 years old, have a house, a fiance, two dogs, two cats, a wedding to plan, my 22-year-old sister is married and is pregnant, my 25-year-old brother just got married, my best friend just got engaged, and my family lives so far away. And for some reason this all scares the shit out of me.

But what I'm really at a loss for words about...is the utter deliciousness of peanut butter.

Pirate Uncle 2--Guns a Blazin'

A few year's ago at my sister's high school graduation party, my uncle Bob attended. My grandparent's were in town from Florida and Bob came over to see his brother, my grandfather.

Now, my grandfather owns a few firearms and for some reason he wanted to bring one of this guns on his trip to Indiana from Florida. However, my grandmother said no, since they weren't sure about gun laws in other states.

Back to the party...we're standing outside talking with my other uncle, Bill, and he says lets go talk to my grandfather and uncle Bob, who were standing around the corner of the garage, away from the rest of the party.

When I walk around the corner I see my uncle Bob pulling a .38 Special out of his pants to show my grandfather. I'm a little skittish around guns to begin with, but especially in the hands of a nipple twisting pirate. What's he going to need a gun for at a graduation party.

"Arrr...what are you staring at potato salad! You'd better watch yourself...or I'll pump your guts full of lead."