Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I think I'll stick to the sit-on-my-ass-drinking-beer-and-occasionally-getting-laid workout plan
Today for some reason, Gmail's contextual ad serving software read all my football-related e-mails and decided that this would be a link I might click on:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
From NFL.com:
From the Seattle Post-Intelligencer:
From CBSSports.com:
While it's nice that Shaun Alexander really wants a new job and is doing everything in his power to convince the sports reporters of the world that he's a hot commodity (right down to implying that he's going to sign with the Bengals and start answering to "tres siete"–groan), he has yet to make it official with any team. That's likely because the "Shaun Alexander Workout" has resulted in so much speed and agility that I could probably outrun and outcut him. In fact, I could do so while smoking a cigarette and eating a slice of pepperoni pizza.
I figure that if Shaun can sell a workout in spite of his failed NFL career, I might as well get on board. I love any kind of workout that leads to unfit slowness, and I'm always on board for a good old-fashioned improbable get-rich-quick scheme. So keep an eye out atop your Gmail for the "Razzy Workout." This consists of Heineken-to-mouth arm curls, aerobic television watching, and cardio-fucking. As an added bonus, I'll throw in some tips on how to boost metabolism (ie: give in to your unfettered rage at stupidity) and protein shake recipes (read: advanced fellatio techniques). Frankly, this is probably as if not more effective than Shaun's exercise regimen. Certainly it will at least allow you to make up stories about flirting with the Saints, Bengals, and Broncos to make your slow ass seem more employable like Shaun is doing. I think it's going to be a big hit.
Labels: exercise drama, fat fucks, intentional buffoonery, NFL football, Razzification, Seahawks
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Daily Douchebag: The Biggest Losers
Name: every contestant, trainer, doctor, and host (Caroline Rhea and/or Sami from "Days of Our Lives") on NBC's "The Biggest Loser"
DOB: various
Occupation: bitching about being fat
Hometown: Anytown, USA
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I never watch this show because I caught an episode of it a couple years ago and my head almost exploded due to the large quantity of whining fat people. Oh, boo hoo, the treadmill is hard! Oh, waaaah, I don't want to eat steamed broccoli. Well, asshole, you should have thought about that before you let your weight balloon over the 300 lb mark. Watching this show made my blood pressure dangerously high, so I never watched it again. In fact, when this was on yesterday, I had just gotten home semi-drunk from having after-work drinks with SisterChristian, and rather than watch people diet, I watched Anthony Bourdain making snide jokes and stuffing his face with water buffalo curry in Chiang Mai, Thailand.
Last night, probably because "American Gangster" or a Taylor Swift video wasn't on, HotLawyer apparently decided to sit down in front of his idiot box back in Tacompton and make the same mistake I had a couple years back. I saw this morning when I work up that he sent me a text that read: "I have determined that everyone on Biggest Loser is a really big loser." Truth!
"The Biggest Loser" is a show that allows all the lazy fat people sitting on their fucking couches to feel like they're doing something about being fat, because they are watching a show about other fat people losing weight. While it claims to be a show that will "inspire" the lardasses at home to get off their fat asses and try to lose weight themselves, I guarantee that the viewers at home are much more interested in watching the contestants battle their morbid obesity from a sedentary position, probably with tubs of ice cream on their laps. This show creates more fat people than it destroys.
Also, HotLawyer is right when he says that all the contestants are losers. The transgendered-looking staff of trainers (especially Jillian--she definitely has a Y chromosome) always has to go to ridiculous lengths to motivate most of these dipshits. They will put them on an elliptical machine for all of five minutes before the average "Biggest Loser" contestant is hyperventilating and begging to quit. And the complaints they make ad nauseum about exercise are NOTHING compared to the complaints about their diet, which basically consists solely of steamed vegetables. Without fail, some dumb bitch is eating brownies on the sly by the end of the first episode, precipitating a lot of lame discussions with the trainers and staff about trust and impulse control. Then the fat chick freaks and is obstinate about how she deserves brownies because of some sad story in her past, the therapists come in to counsel her on how brownies are the crutch she relies upon to get over her childhood trauma (always a variation on having low self-esteem due to being made fun of for being fat), and the viewer is left wanting to throw their TV out the window, preferably onto the nearest passing fat person. Did you think that losing 150 pounds was going to be as easy as hitting the Taco Bell drive through? Quit your bitching and eat your fucking spinach.
Probably the worst part of "The Biggest Loser," though, comes when they all weigh in at the end of the show. These are not people who should be in sports bras and running shorts for ANY reason, yet there they are, clambering up onto the fancy scale with all their spare flesh spilling out for the world to see. The only good I can see coming out of such a frightening display of fat half-naked people on national television is that presumably it causes the aforementioned fat people (along with everyone else) to lose their appetites, thus augmenting their diets. It is an appalling 15 minutes of television. There is a reason why fat people wear baggy t-shirts and mumus at the beach, and that reason is the weigh-in scene on the "Biggest Loser." If I wanted to be grossed out, I would just watch one of those medical anomaly shows about birth defects or weird vascular face tumors on TLC.
I guess I can't get too worked up, though, because "The Biggest Loser" exists merely as the yang to the yin of one of NBC's few triumphs (besides "To Catch a Predator"): the revival of "American Gladiators." I watched that Sunday and, with the exception of me getting annoyed by Hulk Hogan's "brother"-laden commentary, it was just as awesome as I remember it being when I was a kid.
My favorite gladiators so far are Helga and Titan, Helga because bitch is a hot piece of fierce faux-Teutonic rage (plus she gives some serious porn star face) and Titan because he looks like the bastard child of a Ken doll and the guy who played RoboCop, and I love RoboCop. Man, that movie kicked ass. Even more ass than Titan kicks on the regular during the "Pyramid."
I guess "American Gladiators" ass-stomping dominance had to be kept in check by something as unimaginably lame as "The Biggest Loser." It would be nice if NBC could find some sort of happy medium, like a crossover special in which the American Gladiators just run roughshod over all the contestants on the "Biggest Loser." I bet they wouldn't whine to the Gladiators like they do to their trainers. Even if they did, the Gladiators would just make awesome growly faces and beat the shit out of them with their infamous giant Q-tips anyway. I am practically pissing myself with excitement about the idea of Helga and Titan knocking all those fat fucks into a pool with some 100-pound swinging medicine balls. NBC needs to get right on that.
Labels: American Gladiators, Daily Douchebag, exercise drama, fat fucks, gluttony, HotLawyer, TV
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Chingy! can't chase the Cat(skills)
Last weekend I went camping in the Catskills with a bunch of other grad students. Nothing remarkable happened besides getting drunk, eating smores, and freezing my ass off because I only brought one pathetic, velvet, not-warm hoodie procured for $7 at some cheap ho-clothes store on 125th St. with me and it was like 40 degrees at night. Apart from nearly getting evicted from the state park we were staying in due to "rowdiness after quiet hours," the only other thing we did was go for a hike.
Since I had the dogs with me, I figured Caesar would love it and Chingy! could definitely use the exercise. I went with the group going on the "easy" hike (7 miles), because I figured that Chingy! would be stretched to his physical limits by a trip that long, and the "challenging" hike was 14 miles and involved free-climbing. As it turned out, "easy" meant we made it through two miles of scrambling up and down steep, rocky hillsides before J-Sexy wanted to turn back to resume beer drinking. After one look at Chingy!, I knew that we had to go back too. He was exhausted, with his sides heaving in and out like some sort of corpulent, hyperspasmotic accordion bellows, his tongue lolling out of his squashy little snaggletoothed mouth, and his breath coming in sickening, phlegmy gusts of foulness. We moved to climb back up the rock wall we had just descended, and I thought Chingy! was going to die. These "stairs" were so precipitous that I felt like Frodo scaling the mountainous walls of Mordor to reach the dread pass of Cirith Ungol. I tried to motivate Chingy! with some LOTR dialogue ("up, up, up the stairs we go, Precious...until we reach...the tunnel"), but he paid me no heed. He simply stared at me insolently and resentfully, and I could almost hear him thinking withering "CHONGAY CHONG!" thoughts about my forcing him to endure such an arduous journey. When we got to the top of the neverending rock stairs and started venturing back downhill, one of the girls with us felt so sorry for Chingy! that she volunteered to CARRY HIS FAT ASS back down. I told her, "I wouldn't. He's so fucking heavy, I swear mercury flows through his veins."
"He's so tired, I just have to," she insisted. She picked him up, and I defy you to contradict that he may be the most revoltingly pathetic creature on God's green earth:
Besides stinking, weight problems, astronomical vet bills, shitting, consuming shit, destroying stuff, regarding their owners haughtily, and shedding copiously, what the hell are Pugs good for? Because I know a lot of things they're useless at, and backpacking is one of them. Chingy!'s good samaritan only lasted about 100 feet before she had to put his burdensome ass back down, and he proceeded to be a pain in the ass the rest of the way. He stopped to sniff everything, tried to go on sit-down strike TWICE, attempted to take a nap, shook off his leash, and generally tried to impede my efforts to walk him down the trail in every way possible. Then again, I'm not much of a hiker either, as I'm always stopping to smoke and drink beer, and I spent most of my time on this trip trashing what qualifies as a mountain on the East Coast and sneering at the lack of evergreen trees rather than soaking in the magnificence of the Appalachian wilderness.
Even though I was disappointed that Chingy! didn't experience rapid weight loss from his hiking ordeal, I was pleased to get back to the campsite and get down to business with J-Sexy doing what we do best (drink some brew dogs and eat some meat). I contribute a big"fuck that" to traipsing soberly up rockslides waiting to happen as a means of enjoying the great outdoors. As soon as I got home, I ordered a pizza and watched some porn. Heineken consumption, showers, electricity, and not having to hoist my Hutt of a dog up steep rocky inclines are most definitely my jam. Life in the city is far less shitty.
CHONGAY CHONG, camping!
Since I had the dogs with me, I figured Caesar would love it and Chingy! could definitely use the exercise. I went with the group going on the "easy" hike (7 miles), because I figured that Chingy! would be stretched to his physical limits by a trip that long, and the "challenging" hike was 14 miles and involved free-climbing. As it turned out, "easy" meant we made it through two miles of scrambling up and down steep, rocky hillsides before J-Sexy wanted to turn back to resume beer drinking. After one look at Chingy!, I knew that we had to go back too. He was exhausted, with his sides heaving in and out like some sort of corpulent, hyperspasmotic accordion bellows, his tongue lolling out of his squashy little snaggletoothed mouth, and his breath coming in sickening, phlegmy gusts of foulness. We moved to climb back up the rock wall we had just descended, and I thought Chingy! was going to die. These "stairs" were so precipitous that I felt like Frodo scaling the mountainous walls of Mordor to reach the dread pass of Cirith Ungol. I tried to motivate Chingy! with some LOTR dialogue ("up, up, up the stairs we go, Precious...until we reach...the tunnel"), but he paid me no heed. He simply stared at me insolently and resentfully, and I could almost hear him thinking withering "CHONGAY CHONG!" thoughts about my forcing him to endure such an arduous journey. When we got to the top of the neverending rock stairs and started venturing back downhill, one of the girls with us felt so sorry for Chingy! that she volunteered to CARRY HIS FAT ASS back down. I told her, "I wouldn't. He's so fucking heavy, I swear mercury flows through his veins."
"He's so tired, I just have to," she insisted. She picked him up, and I defy you to contradict that he may be the most revoltingly pathetic creature on God's green earth:
Even though I was disappointed that Chingy! didn't experience rapid weight loss from his hiking ordeal, I was pleased to get back to the campsite and get down to business with J-Sexy doing what we do best (drink some brew dogs and eat some meat). I contribute a big"fuck that" to traipsing soberly up rockslides waiting to happen as a means of enjoying the great outdoors. As soon as I got home, I ordered a pizza and watched some porn. Heineken consumption, showers, electricity, and not having to hoist my Hutt of a dog up steep rocky inclines are most definitely my jam. Life in the city is far less shitty.
CHONGAY CHONG, camping!
Labels: alcoholism, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, exercise drama, fat fucks, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Impossible is hilarious
I just returned from my race, and am patting myself on the back for finishing in 43:09. Considering that my training the past couple weeks has consisted of sitting on my ass, drinking lots of Heineken, watching "Deadliest Catch" reruns, and occasionally going for a jog, I'm not at all ashamed of averaging 10:47 a mile. In spite of my "Sabado Gigante" hangover-related concerns that this race would be gigantically bad, I perked up once I got to the park and picked up my number and ChampionChip, because today is a beautiful spring day. The sky is blue, the sun is blazing, the humidity is low, the cherry and magnolia trees are blooming, there was a larger-than-life size decal of Reggie (Get in my) Bush on the side of the "Impossible is Nothing" Adidas promotional trailer, and I stole a banana meant for the kids finishing their 1K fun run. I have to say that so far, it was a good day. I walked over to the starting area to finish the pilfered banana, stretch, and do a little people watching.
This race is the first event I've actually participated in. I joined the New York Road Runners because you have to in order to get into the marathon in the fall, which I intend to do. Even though I have to brave the lottery or raise money for charity to get into the marathon this year, if I run nine races this year I'll have guaranteed entry for the 2008 marathon. I figure that's a reasonable training regimen, so I plan to run eight more of these bad boys before year's end. I realized after today, though, that I am going to have to prepare myself for the ridiculousness I will be confronted with at each of these competitions.
The world of runners is an absurd social scene populated by a variety of characters. Being that I was alone at this event, I was not distracted from observing the cavalcade of runner-types parading past, and noted that there are several distinct categories that runners can be lumped into:
The self-proclaimed running elite: they might still run a ten minute mile, but that doesn't stop these people from thinking they are one race away from the Olympics. They usually have some type of high-tech running outfit on, which is covered with unnecessary vents and probably has a sponsor's logo on it. They wear those ugly Lance Armstrong Oakley sunglasses and do a lot of complicated stretching and bouncing around to prepare for the race. They ask nearby strangers dumb questions like "When is the race going to start?", not because they don't know, but because they are creating an opportunity to regale the questioned with tales of previous race triumphs and provide unsolicited running tips.
Old people: old people always wear the free race t-shirt, even though it may be ill-fitting and wholly unflattering. They also often are sporting a fanny pack, and not a high tech runner's fanny pack, but the giant, old-school kind in some type of Hypercolor fluorescent hue. They run in packs and are aggravatingly slow.
Tech people: in spite of the fact that running requires one piece of equipment (shoes), there are people who buy all these accoutrements to ensure that all the comforts of home can run with them. They have all manner of arm-or-torso-based iPod holders, wallet caddies, and water bottle holders. I saw one dude doing jumping jacks wearing what looked like a cross between one of Schwarzenegger's Commando-era grenade strings and Batman's utility belt around his waist; when I looked closer, it turned out to be a secured water bottle carrier, complete with a COMPASS. I guess that's in case you get lost while running across the 72nd Street Park Transverse and have to get all Bear Grills to find your way back to the Upper West Side.
Desperate single people: I suppose the haters will try to fit me into this category, but it hadn't actually occurred to me that people would use these races to meet potential mates. I certainly don't want to try to mack it to some hot dude while panting and covered with sweat...in my world, the panting and sweating part usually comes after a candidate is taken in by my many crude charms. Nonetheless, there were a lot of chicks in well-thought-out running outfits, makeup, and jewelry, and there were even more dudes trying to spark up conversation in hopes of leading to a running partner. The dude who made the unfortunate decision to chat me up looked like a fat Frodo Baggins in a "Life is Good" shirt, and after I got away from him by pointing out a pile of horse shit in the road and moving away from it and him, he started chatting up this bitch who was at least sixty.
Couples: I assume these are former members of the above group, who were successful in finding a love interest with a NYRR membership, and who now enjoy dates running in races, rather than doing normal shit like eating steak, watching movies, and having dirty backdoor sex. This one couple was so lame they were trying to SHARE iPOD HEADPHONES WHILE THEY RAN.
Firemen: They weren't running in the race, but were ubiquitous along the race course, sitting around in their emergency vehicles watching people and waiting for a runner to keel over. I've spoken many times about the hotness of New York's Bravest, so when I ran past a fire truck at a water station later in the race, I threw a cup of water all over myself. I was wearing a white wife-beater and white unlined sports bra underneath, and from the shouts of encouragement from the boys of Ladder 12 or whatever, my nipples looked awesome.
Pathetic single women trying to feel accomplished: A while back, when I announced my marathon-running ambitions, some readers commented that, to paraphrase, I had sold out:
Fat people: There are obviously a lot of fat people who have realized that running is an efficient method of weight loss. This one group of heifers even had shirts made to commemorate their road running exercise regimen. The back of their shirts said, "Outta my way...I've got goals to achieve!", and they were asking people nearby to take a picture of all three of them from behind to showcase their matching shirts. I would think that the amount of cellulite hanging below the hemline of their appallingly abbreviated running shorts would be enough to motivate them when they take a look at that photograph. After the race started, I got stuck behind one of these cows as she lumbered gaspingly up a hill, and it was my turn to say, "Outta my way, I've got goals to achieve." One goal, for example, is finishing the race in less than five hours.
Business people: Despite the fact that it was Sunday morning, there was a slew of Wall Street-type dudes who were busy Blackberrying right up until the race started. Losers.
Track teams: There were these monstrous groups of teenagers wearing team gear running in packs and generally annoying me.
Underdressed old men: I saw at least fifty dudes who were inadvisably shirtless. These are the types who have strange bodies (skinny with a set of C-cup man-tits) and look like those gasping, emaciated dudes at the end of 28 Days Later who were dying of the rage virus in the middle of the street, covered with badly distributed body hair, and oozing a toxic film of sweat to splash on anyone unwise enough to attempt to pass them. I was contaminated at milepost 3, but fortunately there was a water stand there, so I was able to reenter the Central Park wet t-shirt contest and rid myself of nasty old man running funk at the same time.
Kids: These snotty little overachievers are too athletic for the "Kids Race," the purpose of which I thought was to segregate the children from people like myself who hate them. Apparently, kids can still run the adult race if they want to, and a lot did. I made sure I stepped on as many of their feet as possible. At the end of the race, I decided to take the advice of this random dude I boned a month ago who happens to be a runner. He suggested sprinting at the end of the race. I did, and as I passed a cluster of sweaty, miserable-looking kids, I told them to eat my dust. Suckers!
I can't wait until the next race event, when I get to do even more race culture anthropology, and will hopefully be clever enough to bring a camera to document the ridiculousness. You know these assholes are just going to get more obviously but unintentionally hilarious as the marathon gets closer.
This race is the first event I've actually participated in. I joined the New York Road Runners because you have to in order to get into the marathon in the fall, which I intend to do. Even though I have to brave the lottery or raise money for charity to get into the marathon this year, if I run nine races this year I'll have guaranteed entry for the 2008 marathon. I figure that's a reasonable training regimen, so I plan to run eight more of these bad boys before year's end. I realized after today, though, that I am going to have to prepare myself for the ridiculousness I will be confronted with at each of these competitions.
The world of runners is an absurd social scene populated by a variety of characters. Being that I was alone at this event, I was not distracted from observing the cavalcade of runner-types parading past, and noted that there are several distinct categories that runners can be lumped into:
The self-proclaimed running elite: they might still run a ten minute mile, but that doesn't stop these people from thinking they are one race away from the Olympics. They usually have some type of high-tech running outfit on, which is covered with unnecessary vents and probably has a sponsor's logo on it. They wear those ugly Lance Armstrong Oakley sunglasses and do a lot of complicated stretching and bouncing around to prepare for the race. They ask nearby strangers dumb questions like "When is the race going to start?", not because they don't know, but because they are creating an opportunity to regale the questioned with tales of previous race triumphs and provide unsolicited running tips.
Old people: old people always wear the free race t-shirt, even though it may be ill-fitting and wholly unflattering. They also often are sporting a fanny pack, and not a high tech runner's fanny pack, but the giant, old-school kind in some type of Hypercolor fluorescent hue. They run in packs and are aggravatingly slow.
Tech people: in spite of the fact that running requires one piece of equipment (shoes), there are people who buy all these accoutrements to ensure that all the comforts of home can run with them. They have all manner of arm-or-torso-based iPod holders, wallet caddies, and water bottle holders. I saw one dude doing jumping jacks wearing what looked like a cross between one of Schwarzenegger's Commando-era grenade strings and Batman's utility belt around his waist; when I looked closer, it turned out to be a secured water bottle carrier, complete with a COMPASS. I guess that's in case you get lost while running across the 72nd Street Park Transverse and have to get all Bear Grills to find your way back to the Upper West Side.
Desperate single people: I suppose the haters will try to fit me into this category, but it hadn't actually occurred to me that people would use these races to meet potential mates. I certainly don't want to try to mack it to some hot dude while panting and covered with sweat...in my world, the panting and sweating part usually comes after a candidate is taken in by my many crude charms. Nonetheless, there were a lot of chicks in well-thought-out running outfits, makeup, and jewelry, and there were even more dudes trying to spark up conversation in hopes of leading to a running partner. The dude who made the unfortunate decision to chat me up looked like a fat Frodo Baggins in a "Life is Good" shirt, and after I got away from him by pointing out a pile of horse shit in the road and moving away from it and him, he started chatting up this bitch who was at least sixty.
Couples: I assume these are former members of the above group, who were successful in finding a love interest with a NYRR membership, and who now enjoy dates running in races, rather than doing normal shit like eating steak, watching movies, and having dirty backdoor sex. This one couple was so lame they were trying to SHARE iPOD HEADPHONES WHILE THEY RAN.
Firemen: They weren't running in the race, but were ubiquitous along the race course, sitting around in their emergency vehicles watching people and waiting for a runner to keel over. I've spoken many times about the hotness of New York's Bravest, so when I ran past a fire truck at a water station later in the race, I threw a cup of water all over myself. I was wearing a white wife-beater and white unlined sports bra underneath, and from the shouts of encouragement from the boys of Ladder 12 or whatever, my nipples looked awesome.
Pathetic single women trying to feel accomplished: A while back, when I announced my marathon-running ambitions, some readers commented that, to paraphrase, I had sold out:
are you getting your botox before or after the race? razzy, don't you know that every fucking manhattan single woman above 28 caves to peer-pressure and runs the marathon? and these same women date older rich men with committment issues, rent in the hamptons, run up debt on fancy handbags, bi-weekly beauty salon visits, and talking to their shrinks.I'm running the marathon to QUIT SMOKING, people! This is not me, and I could write a fucking book about how wrong all these assertions are. However, there were a variety of women of this ilk there. Some of them were mingling with the "Desperate Single People" crowd, and others were busy bragging to anyone who would listen about all the races they've signed up for, their chances in the lottery, their injuries, etc. The worst was this ho decrying the nectar of the gods (AKA booze) because it was so much harder to train after a night of drinking. Well, try training after a night of drinking AND "Sabado Gigante", bitch...you'll be wrecked.
You have now officially an aging single Manhattan girl looking for something meaningful in her life to replace having a relationship. I used to think you were a fun loving free spirited grad student, now I know you are typical narcissistic Manhattan girl. Can I suggest a Post Doc at Cold Spring Harbor so you can move to long island with an older man and live in your "dream house."
Fat people: There are obviously a lot of fat people who have realized that running is an efficient method of weight loss. This one group of heifers even had shirts made to commemorate their road running exercise regimen. The back of their shirts said, "Outta my way...I've got goals to achieve!", and they were asking people nearby to take a picture of all three of them from behind to showcase their matching shirts. I would think that the amount of cellulite hanging below the hemline of their appallingly abbreviated running shorts would be enough to motivate them when they take a look at that photograph. After the race started, I got stuck behind one of these cows as she lumbered gaspingly up a hill, and it was my turn to say, "Outta my way, I've got goals to achieve." One goal, for example, is finishing the race in less than five hours.
Business people: Despite the fact that it was Sunday morning, there was a slew of Wall Street-type dudes who were busy Blackberrying right up until the race started. Losers.
Track teams: There were these monstrous groups of teenagers wearing team gear running in packs and generally annoying me.
Underdressed old men: I saw at least fifty dudes who were inadvisably shirtless. These are the types who have strange bodies (skinny with a set of C-cup man-tits) and look like those gasping, emaciated dudes at the end of 28 Days Later who were dying of the rage virus in the middle of the street, covered with badly distributed body hair, and oozing a toxic film of sweat to splash on anyone unwise enough to attempt to pass them. I was contaminated at milepost 3, but fortunately there was a water stand there, so I was able to reenter the Central Park wet t-shirt contest and rid myself of nasty old man running funk at the same time.
Kids: These snotty little overachievers are too athletic for the "Kids Race," the purpose of which I thought was to segregate the children from people like myself who hate them. Apparently, kids can still run the adult race if they want to, and a lot did. I made sure I stepped on as many of their feet as possible. At the end of the race, I decided to take the advice of this random dude I boned a month ago who happens to be a runner. He suggested sprinting at the end of the race. I did, and as I passed a cluster of sweaty, miserable-looking kids, I told them to eat my dust. Suckers!
I can't wait until the next race event, when I get to do even more race culture anthropology, and will hopefully be clever enough to bring a camera to document the ridiculousness. You know these assholes are just going to get more obviously but unintentionally hilarious as the marathon gets closer.
Labels: exercise drama, fat fucks, hilarious shit, NYC, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, March 09, 2007
Bombs over beer gut
Rac has been trying to tell me for years. I should have listened. I should have known. Alas, like all things, I had to come to it myself.
What is this revelation, you ask? Pretty easy.
THE PUSHUP BRA IS AN ENGINEERING MARVEL. Like the Hoover Dam. La Tour Eiffel. The Ferris Wheel. I don't know what clever bastard finally made the link between the braziere and the suspension-bridge, but I salute said person. Goddamn brilliant.
And don't you dare call me stupid that it took me three decades to learn this. I am a foreigner to some very basic traditional female rituals. It's just how I roll. I like painting my fingernails and I've grown to love high heels in the last few years, but I don't know shit about hair, makeup or lingerie. I'd be better off in the hands of an armless Nam Vet when it comes to cosmetics than left to my own devices. As for bras, well, I have two: a sports bra for the gym (feel the burn!) and a tube-top number for keeping my shit under wraps at work.
With LL Cool Jew's nuptials on the horizon, though, I'm in Lady Training. I gotta wear a dress - a hot one at that, but a mystery, with strange descriptions like "A-line." I have to wear silver shoes. Get my hair did and draped with florals. Buy gel cup boosty things because I boast THE smallest tits in the whole wedding party.
So it's Chick 101 for me. As Hammer says, Ring the bell - school's in, sucka!
Items on the agenda:
First, call 1-800-STORAGE for my beer gut. Switch to whisky. Cut down on the bread. Do not be the pregnant-lookin'-fat-girl in the wedding. It's been an interesting experiment - challenging, certainly, but I'm a little bit OCD, so there's a degree of self-discipline that I actually enjoy. And the diet is working. Not that there's a single person speaking English and alive today who *doesn't know this, just sayin.
Second mission. Handle my tits. Hence the pushup bra. Again, I know the ladies have been telling me about this, yet somehow it didn't hit my ears. But hold the fucking phone, I'm a believer. THIS BRA IS FUCKING AMAZING. There is now, for the first time in my natural lifetime, a shadow that comes somewhere near the word "cleavage." Me, President of the Tiny Titty Committee. I have no problem with that - it simply means that I am unaccustomed to seeing boobs on myself. This changes everything. It makes me think - can you do this with ass? Love handles? Beer guts? Is there someway to resling all this shit so you, er, redistribute the chunky wealth?
And then it hits me - THIS is what they mean when they say *silhouette. OHHHHHH...
Mission after this.
Alteration. I don't want to talk about it. Just let me know if you know a tailor.
Mission, what are we on, four?
Touch up my dye job so I don't look like Madonna.
Mission 5
Go back into booze boot camp a few weeks before the wedding so I don't fall over in them aforementioned heels.
Nummer 6
Make it to wedding etc
and lucky Number 7
Get a fucking photo of myself looking every inch like a lady and print the shit on a shirt to wear to the gym.
To remind us all that it is in fact possible, it did in fact happen, it is true: I'm a girl, and I can act like one.
What is this revelation, you ask? Pretty easy.
THE PUSHUP BRA IS AN ENGINEERING MARVEL. Like the Hoover Dam. La Tour Eiffel. The Ferris Wheel. I don't know what clever bastard finally made the link between the braziere and the suspension-bridge, but I salute said person. Goddamn brilliant.
And don't you dare call me stupid that it took me three decades to learn this. I am a foreigner to some very basic traditional female rituals. It's just how I roll. I like painting my fingernails and I've grown to love high heels in the last few years, but I don't know shit about hair, makeup or lingerie. I'd be better off in the hands of an armless Nam Vet when it comes to cosmetics than left to my own devices. As for bras, well, I have two: a sports bra for the gym (feel the burn!) and a tube-top number for keeping my shit under wraps at work.
With LL Cool Jew's nuptials on the horizon, though, I'm in Lady Training. I gotta wear a dress - a hot one at that, but a mystery, with strange descriptions like "A-line." I have to wear silver shoes. Get my hair did and draped with florals. Buy gel cup boosty things because I boast THE smallest tits in the whole wedding party.
So it's Chick 101 for me. As Hammer says, Ring the bell - school's in, sucka!
Items on the agenda:
First, call 1-800-STORAGE for my beer gut. Switch to whisky. Cut down on the bread. Do not be the pregnant-lookin'-fat-girl in the wedding. It's been an interesting experiment - challenging, certainly, but I'm a little bit OCD, so there's a degree of self-discipline that I actually enjoy. And the diet is working. Not that there's a single person speaking English and alive today who *doesn't know this, just sayin.
Second mission. Handle my tits. Hence the pushup bra. Again, I know the ladies have been telling me about this, yet somehow it didn't hit my ears. But hold the fucking phone, I'm a believer. THIS BRA IS FUCKING AMAZING. There is now, for the first time in my natural lifetime, a shadow that comes somewhere near the word "cleavage." Me, President of the Tiny Titty Committee. I have no problem with that - it simply means that I am unaccustomed to seeing boobs on myself. This changes everything. It makes me think - can you do this with ass? Love handles? Beer guts? Is there someway to resling all this shit so you, er, redistribute the chunky wealth?
And then it hits me - THIS is what they mean when they say *silhouette. OHHHHHH...
Mission after this.
Alteration. I don't want to talk about it. Just let me know if you know a tailor.
Mission, what are we on, four?
Touch up my dye job so I don't look like Madonna.
Mission 5
Go back into booze boot camp a few weeks before the wedding so I don't fall over in them aforementioned heels.
Nummer 6
Make it to wedding etc
and lucky Number 7
Get a fucking photo of myself looking every inch like a lady and print the shit on a shirt to wear to the gym.
To remind us all that it is in fact possible, it did in fact happen, it is true: I'm a girl, and I can act like one.
Labels: exercise drama, FalloniusMonk, holy fucking matrimony
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Chingy! goes to fat camp
My father asked for and received a treadmill for Christmas in his latest bid to lose weight. I suspect that it's only a matter of time before the treadmill, like the Stairmaster and NordicTrack before it, will begin service as a very expensive clothes drying rack. However, although I have yet to see my dad do any meaningful exercise on it, he has now decided that Chingy!'s need for weight loss is greater than his own.
"This dog needs a walk," he said this morning, as I sat in my pajamas drinking coffee and watching NFL Live with my brother.
"Put him outside," I said, knowing that Chingy! will walk around at a most leisurely pace until he sniffs and successfully pisses on every rhododendron in my parents' backyard. "Or better yet, why don't you take him for a walk?" I thought privately that my old man needs the exercise just as much as Chingy! does.
"Why don't you take him running with you?" my dad asked.
"Because there's no way in hell that dog can do three miles," I replied. "He's too fat, and with his brachycephalic face and collapsible trachea, he'll stop breathing if he exerts himself too much."
"That dog needs a walk," my dad reiterated, then leashed him up. I thought it was odd that my dad was planning on walking him when he himself was barefoot and wearing naught but a pair of basketball shorts and an old t-shirt, but shrugged and went back to the discussion about our mutual hatred of the brothers Manning I was involved in with my brother.
"Hey, Razzy, come here!" my dad shouted from his room.
"Hang on, we're busy talking about how Mark Schlereth looks more like a corporate lawyer than a lineman!" I shouted. "Besides, lame shit like the World Series of Poker is on next, so can't it wait until that comes on?"
"No, it can't! Get in here and look at your dog!"
I walked down the hall to my parents' room and saw that my dad had, indeed, decided to take Chingy! for a walk. Except instead of actually taking him for a walk, my dad was reclining on the bed watching the Military Channel and Chingy! was doing this, with an expression of utmost disdain and resentment on his pugly little face:
"I've got him up to five minutes," my dad said proudly, as if expecting kudos for his skills as an obese dog personal trainer. I checked the pace on the treadmill, and saw that Chingy! was going at the explosive speed of 0.2 miles per hour. This was still too fast for him, as he kept trying to sit down but couldn't figure out how to accomplish this on the moving treadmill. If he weren't leashed to the treadmill and thus forced to keep walking, I have no doubt that he'd gladly just park his ass and sail right off the end of the conveyor belt.
"Well, try not to wear him out TOO much, Dad," I said sarcastically.
"Alright, Chongay, that's enough," said my dad in a laudatory tone when Chingy!'s five minutes were up. Chingy! promptly staggered across the hall and collapsed in a hail of loud snoring on my new Seahawks blanket. I can't wait to see how totally not effective this new exercise regimen is going to be for Chingy!, and how much weight he's NOT going to lose.
"This dog needs a walk," he said this morning, as I sat in my pajamas drinking coffee and watching NFL Live with my brother.
"Put him outside," I said, knowing that Chingy! will walk around at a most leisurely pace until he sniffs and successfully pisses on every rhododendron in my parents' backyard. "Or better yet, why don't you take him for a walk?" I thought privately that my old man needs the exercise just as much as Chingy! does.
"Why don't you take him running with you?" my dad asked.
"Because there's no way in hell that dog can do three miles," I replied. "He's too fat, and with his brachycephalic face and collapsible trachea, he'll stop breathing if he exerts himself too much."
"That dog needs a walk," my dad reiterated, then leashed him up. I thought it was odd that my dad was planning on walking him when he himself was barefoot and wearing naught but a pair of basketball shorts and an old t-shirt, but shrugged and went back to the discussion about our mutual hatred of the brothers Manning I was involved in with my brother.
"Hey, Razzy, come here!" my dad shouted from his room.
"Hang on, we're busy talking about how Mark Schlereth looks more like a corporate lawyer than a lineman!" I shouted. "Besides, lame shit like the World Series of Poker is on next, so can't it wait until that comes on?"
"No, it can't! Get in here and look at your dog!"
I walked down the hall to my parents' room and saw that my dad had, indeed, decided to take Chingy! for a walk. Except instead of actually taking him for a walk, my dad was reclining on the bed watching the Military Channel and Chingy! was doing this, with an expression of utmost disdain and resentment on his pugly little face:
"I've got him up to five minutes," my dad said proudly, as if expecting kudos for his skills as an obese dog personal trainer. I checked the pace on the treadmill, and saw that Chingy! was going at the explosive speed of 0.2 miles per hour. This was still too fast for him, as he kept trying to sit down but couldn't figure out how to accomplish this on the moving treadmill. If he weren't leashed to the treadmill and thus forced to keep walking, I have no doubt that he'd gladly just park his ass and sail right off the end of the conveyor belt.
"Well, try not to wear him out TOO much, Dad," I said sarcastically.
"Alright, Chongay, that's enough," said my dad in a laudatory tone when Chingy!'s five minutes were up. Chingy! promptly staggered across the hall and collapsed in a hail of loud snoring on my new Seahawks blanket. I can't wait to see how totally not effective this new exercise regimen is going to be for Chingy!, and how much weight he's NOT going to lose.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, exercise drama, fat fucks
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Dude does NOT look like a lady
So the dedicated and ferocious Razzyphile BigWig has graciously provided a link to what I assume is a picture of the Indian sprinter being stripped of his/her Asian Games silver medal in the women's 800 meter race for "failing a gender test." I figured that this sprinter would be more of the type who looked like my ex-girlfriend from high school: a little too tall and muscular, and lacking feminine curviness, but still undoubtedly female and probably getting laid like the sultan of Dubai at lesbian bars for her butchiness. While my high school ex is a tad on the androgynous side (and I think these days it's a look she's embraced), I can say that I've personally performed a gender test on her in the course of our teenage experimenting, and she passed the plumbing portion of the exam.
The Indian track star, however, is undeniably a dude. I've seen drag hookers in the Meatpacking district who are less obviously male than this person. I can't even imagine how s/he got into women's international competition in the first place. Granted, I bet that openly transgendered people are much more of a rarity in India than they are here, and I bet it's also harder to get the hormones and surgeries needed to make the switch, but it's like this dude didn't even try. It reminds me of those bitches at Smith that would cut their hair and rename themselves Colin or Bobby or Julian, and then expect everyone to immediately refer to them with masculine pronouns without explaining themselves. I got into trouble with several Smith trannies back in the day because of such confusion, and to this day I'm still uncertain when a half-assed tranny crosses my path how to properly address them (ie: Miss J, judge, runway walking coach, and instigator of idiot Tyra Banks behavior from "America's Next Top Model.") Santhi Soudarajan seemingly just expected everyone to take his word for it that s/he's a chick, without really putting any effort into ensuring that the transformation is complete. Maybe it's hard to schedule an Adam's apple shaving with a New Delhi plastic surgeon, but at the very least, wear some WOMEN'S CLOTHES, dumbass! That's the least you can do before you try to pass yourself off as female in international competitions. See for yourself:
She's a man, baby!
The Indian track star, however, is undeniably a dude. I've seen drag hookers in the Meatpacking district who are less obviously male than this person. I can't even imagine how s/he got into women's international competition in the first place. Granted, I bet that openly transgendered people are much more of a rarity in India than they are here, and I bet it's also harder to get the hormones and surgeries needed to make the switch, but it's like this dude didn't even try. It reminds me of those bitches at Smith that would cut their hair and rename themselves Colin or Bobby or Julian, and then expect everyone to immediately refer to them with masculine pronouns without explaining themselves. I got into trouble with several Smith trannies back in the day because of such confusion, and to this day I'm still uncertain when a half-assed tranny crosses my path how to properly address them (ie: Miss J, judge, runway walking coach, and instigator of idiot Tyra Banks behavior from "America's Next Top Model.") Santhi Soudarajan seemingly just expected everyone to take his word for it that s/he's a chick, without really putting any effort into ensuring that the transformation is complete. Maybe it's hard to schedule an Adam's apple shaving with a New Delhi plastic surgeon, but at the very least, wear some WOMEN'S CLOTHES, dumbass! That's the least you can do before you try to pass yourself off as female in international competitions. See for yourself:
Labels: America's Next Top Model, exercise drama, gender bending, international intrigue
Monday, December 18, 2006
This is a new one
You often hear about athletes failing various drug tests, but Indian runner Santhi Soudarajan is expected to be stripped of the silver medal she won in the women's 800 meter in the Asian Games, according to this hilariously titled article on SI/CNN, for failing a fucking GENDER TEST:
How embarrassing. If you're going to compete in international track-and-field events, and you happen to be a less-than-convincing M2F tranny, make sure you get a set of tits put in before your ass is receiving your silver medal. Although this article doesn't give specifics about what exactly was suspicious about the runner in question, it does mention that a team of doctors determined that s/he "does not possess the sexual characteristics of a woman."
So does that mean s/he has a Y chromosome and this was determined by cytogenetics after someone noticed her Adam's apple and flat chest, or does that mean that when s/he squatted at the starting line, her cock-and-balls fell out of her jogging shorts? I don't understand why the mainstream press always excludes these very important details, because to me this is the most important part of the story. Jeez. One of these days, after my useless bullshit empire has assets in the billions, I'll be able to send peons off to cover things like the World Asian Games in places like Doha, Qatar to report these stories properly.
How embarrassing. If you're going to compete in international track-and-field events, and you happen to be a less-than-convincing M2F tranny, make sure you get a set of tits put in before your ass is receiving your silver medal. Although this article doesn't give specifics about what exactly was suspicious about the runner in question, it does mention that a team of doctors determined that s/he "does not possess the sexual characteristics of a woman."
So does that mean s/he has a Y chromosome and this was determined by cytogenetics after someone noticed her Adam's apple and flat chest, or does that mean that when s/he squatted at the starting line, her cock-and-balls fell out of her jogging shorts? I don't understand why the mainstream press always excludes these very important details, because to me this is the most important part of the story. Jeez. One of these days, after my useless bullshit empire has assets in the billions, I'll be able to send peons off to cover things like the World Asian Games in places like Doha, Qatar to report these stories properly.
Labels: exercise drama, hilarious shit, international intrigue
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Running in Harlem is fun
Hopefully you'll all excuse my radio silence over the past couple days. I was taking a break from the internet and existing in a state of sheer post-Thanksgiving gluttony. I was going to write a blog entry about the fabulous holiday dinner I made, but then realized that most people who read this aren't looking for domestic tips, like how to weave a gorgeous lattice crust on an apple pie or how to formulate the perfect turkey brine. Since FalloniusMonk has been blogging in my stead, as well as stirring up lots of comment page controversy with her aggressive pro-smoking stance, I decided to instead do a lot of nothing.
Since my guests left in the wee morning hours on Friday, I have been reclining on my couch, watching yesterday's marathon of "Engineering an Empire" on the History Channel, and eating a disgusting amount of leftovers. Thank God I don't have a scale at my house, because I'm pretty sure that I've gained a solid ten pounds in turkey, gravy, stuffing, and pie. I've basically been lounging about in my darkened lair, slowly turning into Jabba the Hutt, except without the army of grunting pig soldiers, cool band of oboists, or a button I can use to feed tentacle-headed strippers to a large, Chingy!-esque monster at my whim. Man, that would be awesome.
As awesome as the perks of Hutt life would be, however, I'm not trying to rock Jabba's figure. Therefore, I got off my now-even-rounder ass, clipped my pedometer to my jogging pants, and went for a run around the hood. I ran an extra mile just to make sure to burn off the holiday poundage. Besides, the weather was gorgeous and I didn't mind being out and about, and it was just as well, because people said some funny shit to me.
I was running toward Lenox Ave, AKA Malcolm X Boulevard, down 127th Street past a row of brownstones. A very, very large woman wearing an Akademks shirt that could double as a sail for an America's Cup racing skiff was sitting on the stoop of one of these houses with her equally obese friend. As I ran by, this woman turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "See, I told you white people are crazy. They runnin' even when nobody's chasing 'em."
I snorted with laughter as I ran by. Shortly after, a fat man smoking a Black and Mild outside the Frederick Douglass Houses (one of the New York City Housing Authority's local developments AKA the 'jects) noticed me running by and asked, "Hey ma, you need a personal trainer?" I looked him over as I trotted past and asked, "What personal trainer? You??" He grinned. "Thanks, I think I'm doing fine on my own," I said and ran off, him protesting in my wake that he would "train me good."
I fucking love my neighborhood. Harlem world!
Since my guests left in the wee morning hours on Friday, I have been reclining on my couch, watching yesterday's marathon of "Engineering an Empire" on the History Channel, and eating a disgusting amount of leftovers. Thank God I don't have a scale at my house, because I'm pretty sure that I've gained a solid ten pounds in turkey, gravy, stuffing, and pie. I've basically been lounging about in my darkened lair, slowly turning into Jabba the Hutt, except without the army of grunting pig soldiers, cool band of oboists, or a button I can use to feed tentacle-headed strippers to a large, Chingy!-esque monster at my whim. Man, that would be awesome.
As awesome as the perks of Hutt life would be, however, I'm not trying to rock Jabba's figure. Therefore, I got off my now-even-rounder ass, clipped my pedometer to my jogging pants, and went for a run around the hood. I ran an extra mile just to make sure to burn off the holiday poundage. Besides, the weather was gorgeous and I didn't mind being out and about, and it was just as well, because people said some funny shit to me.
I was running toward Lenox Ave, AKA Malcolm X Boulevard, down 127th Street past a row of brownstones. A very, very large woman wearing an Akademks shirt that could double as a sail for an America's Cup racing skiff was sitting on the stoop of one of these houses with her equally obese friend. As I ran by, this woman turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "See, I told you white people are crazy. They runnin' even when nobody's chasing 'em."
I snorted with laughter as I ran by. Shortly after, a fat man smoking a Black and Mild outside the Frederick Douglass Houses (one of the New York City Housing Authority's local developments AKA the 'jects) noticed me running by and asked, "Hey ma, you need a personal trainer?" I looked him over as I trotted past and asked, "What personal trainer? You??" He grinned. "Thanks, I think I'm doing fine on my own," I said and ran off, him protesting in my wake that he would "train me good."
I fucking love my neighborhood. Harlem world!
Labels: exercise drama, gluttony, Harlem world, NYC
Saturday, October 14, 2006
The latest item on my "to vanquish" list
Once again, I'm giving non-smoking a go for about the hundredth time. I HATE quitting smoking. I'm so sick of doing it: going through the suffering and misery of withdrawal only to have a couple drinks, fire up a Parliament Light, berate myself for failing, and wind up back to my pack-a-day old ways.
Therefore, in order to prevent relapse history from repeating itself, I need to take drastic measures. Since merely mentally committing to quitting smoking clearly isn't enough to keep me off the coffin nails, I have to do something that absolutely, completely,unequivocally prohibits me from smoking. It has to be something that I could never do while smoking at all, and it has to take up at least a year. I was trying to think of different things that are very athletic and aerobic, and require endurance beyond that of a heavy smoker's. The other day on the subway, I saw an ad, and the answer was immediately clear to me. Next year, I am going to compete in this:
I can almost hear all the people who know me laughing scornfully, saying "sha right, Razzy will never be able to quit smoking, much less quit smoking and run 26.2 fucking miles." It's true that I'm very lazy, and I've been a smoker since the tender age of 13, and both those facts support a negative outlook for me successfully running this entire marathon. I think, however, that this is an excellent opportunity to prove to myself and everybody else that I can actually accomplish major feats of athleticism if I am determined enough. Also, my parents are on board, and they are buying me a new pair of fly running shoes in a show of support. And I love shoes, betch, so this should at least motivate me enough to get started. I have enlisted the assistance of the able distance runner KatieScarlett, who is taking me to the best running shoe store in Lesbianville, Brooklyn.
There's another reason why I'm going to run a marathon, and that is because I hate them. I say fuck marathons, and fuck the ancient battle versus the Persians that happened there, too. Memo to Greece: your poems, myths, tragedies, democracy, thinkers, feta cheese, baklava, and word origins are cool and all, but YOUR TECHNOLOGY SUCKED. That's why I got pissed during the movie Troy, because it was all shitty ancient Greek military technology without any gods intervening. Furthermore, the fact that Greece's cultural dominance in the ancient world relies entirely on mythic heroes and the exploitation of Olympian family drama is because your boats and weapons were so fucking crappy in the first place. Marathons are a big part of ancient Greek tradition, and since they aren't epic stories by Homer or badass albeit mythologically inaccurate movies starring Harry Hamlin as Perseus, I can't hold my head up high without definitively kicking some 26.2 mile SISSY MARATHON ASS.
I have 13 months to prepare for this, and in order to get into the marathon, I have to qualify by running in 9 different New York Road Runner races. Well, I don't have to do this, because there is a lottery for people who don't; however, I've never been particularly lucky, and apparently the lottery has steep odds because of the surprisingly huge number of people who for some reason want to punish themselves in this manner. The way I see it, if I qualify by running 9 races alone, it will be pretty damn encouraging that in fact I would be capable of actually sticking it to the ancient Greeks and pulling off an entire full-length marathon.
Just looking at the course makes me want to throw up. Somehow I'll have to get my ass all the way out to Staten Island to start, and then run all the way back to Manhattan through Brooklyn and Queens with a quick detour through the Bronx. This is an absolutely terrifying prospect:
However, if I can do this, then there is NOTHING I can't do, because not only will I have smote the marathon's ruin upon the proverbial mountainside, but I will have accomplished the far more difficult trial of quitting smoking. Achievement here will spur me on to accomplish greater goals, like finally graduating and getting the hell out of grad school. After that, it's straight up world domination time. Go Razzy!
Therefore, in order to prevent relapse history from repeating itself, I need to take drastic measures. Since merely mentally committing to quitting smoking clearly isn't enough to keep me off the coffin nails, I have to do something that absolutely, completely,unequivocally prohibits me from smoking. It has to be something that I could never do while smoking at all, and it has to take up at least a year. I was trying to think of different things that are very athletic and aerobic, and require endurance beyond that of a heavy smoker's. The other day on the subway, I saw an ad, and the answer was immediately clear to me. Next year, I am going to compete in this:
I can almost hear all the people who know me laughing scornfully, saying "sha right, Razzy will never be able to quit smoking, much less quit smoking and run 26.2 fucking miles." It's true that I'm very lazy, and I've been a smoker since the tender age of 13, and both those facts support a negative outlook for me successfully running this entire marathon. I think, however, that this is an excellent opportunity to prove to myself and everybody else that I can actually accomplish major feats of athleticism if I am determined enough. Also, my parents are on board, and they are buying me a new pair of fly running shoes in a show of support. And I love shoes, betch, so this should at least motivate me enough to get started. I have enlisted the assistance of the able distance runner KatieScarlett, who is taking me to the best running shoe store in Lesbianville, Brooklyn.
There's another reason why I'm going to run a marathon, and that is because I hate them. I say fuck marathons, and fuck the ancient battle versus the Persians that happened there, too. Memo to Greece: your poems, myths, tragedies, democracy, thinkers, feta cheese, baklava, and word origins are cool and all, but YOUR TECHNOLOGY SUCKED. That's why I got pissed during the movie Troy, because it was all shitty ancient Greek military technology without any gods intervening. Furthermore, the fact that Greece's cultural dominance in the ancient world relies entirely on mythic heroes and the exploitation of Olympian family drama is because your boats and weapons were so fucking crappy in the first place. Marathons are a big part of ancient Greek tradition, and since they aren't epic stories by Homer or badass albeit mythologically inaccurate movies starring Harry Hamlin as Perseus, I can't hold my head up high without definitively kicking some 26.2 mile SISSY MARATHON ASS.
I have 13 months to prepare for this, and in order to get into the marathon, I have to qualify by running in 9 different New York Road Runner races. Well, I don't have to do this, because there is a lottery for people who don't; however, I've never been particularly lucky, and apparently the lottery has steep odds because of the surprisingly huge number of people who for some reason want to punish themselves in this manner. The way I see it, if I qualify by running 9 races alone, it will be pretty damn encouraging that in fact I would be capable of actually sticking it to the ancient Greeks and pulling off an entire full-length marathon.
Just looking at the course makes me want to throw up. Somehow I'll have to get my ass all the way out to Staten Island to start, and then run all the way back to Manhattan through Brooklyn and Queens with a quick detour through the Bronx. This is an absolutely terrifying prospect:
However, if I can do this, then there is NOTHING I can't do, because not only will I have smote the marathon's ruin upon the proverbial mountainside, but I will have accomplished the far more difficult trial of quitting smoking. Achievement here will spur me on to accomplish greater goals, like finally graduating and getting the hell out of grad school. After that, it's straight up world domination time. Go Razzy!
Labels: defiance, exercise drama, smoking
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Vindication
Today I was at the gym, and guess who was flopping around on my Gauntlet stairmaster?
Yes, it was Treadmill Bitch, that saggy old red-headed bitch who once told me that it would make my ass--actually, the word she chose was "rear"--undesirably big. She was perched atop it with her towel, her Vitamin Water, and her sleeveless Susan G. Komen foundation shirt, sweating profusely but looking just as uptight as ever. I smirked up at her as I waited my turn, and could only barely restrain myself from giving her a loud, satisfying "I told you so!"
Maybe one of her kids informed her that asses are all the rage right now. Or maybe hell froze over and Good Housekeeping, Sunset, or Old Bitch Monthly interviewed Bubba Sparxxx or E-40 and she immediately resolved to embrace volumizing and lifting her "rear." Whatever the case, while I'm glad she presumably won't be talking any more shit to me about my fine voluptuous backside in the ladies locker room, that old slut better not start monopolizing my Gauntlet or she and I are going to have a whole new problem.
Yes, it was Treadmill Bitch, that saggy old red-headed bitch who once told me that it would make my ass--actually, the word she chose was "rear"--undesirably big. She was perched atop it with her towel, her Vitamin Water, and her sleeveless Susan G. Komen foundation shirt, sweating profusely but looking just as uptight as ever. I smirked up at her as I waited my turn, and could only barely restrain myself from giving her a loud, satisfying "I told you so!"
Maybe one of her kids informed her that asses are all the rage right now. Or maybe hell froze over and Good Housekeeping, Sunset, or Old Bitch Monthly interviewed Bubba Sparxxx or E-40 and she immediately resolved to embrace volumizing and lifting her "rear." Whatever the case, while I'm glad she presumably won't be talking any more shit to me about my fine voluptuous backside in the ladies locker room, that old slut better not start monopolizing my Gauntlet or she and I are going to have a whole new problem.
Labels: exercise drama, I LOVE IT, stank vaginas, vengeance is sweet
Monday, July 24, 2006
Gym Drama: The Next Generation
Since I went to Wisconsin, where I drank many heavy beers and ate a lot of fried foods without much exercise, I've been sweating my tits off at the gym to make up for it. The shitty-ass Columbia gym isn't air-conditioned, so it literally feels like working out in a sauna. That means two things: fewer people in the gym on account of horrendous conditions, and ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY post-gym showers. Not that I've ever considered showering after working out optional (I tend to err on the side of extra showering...you can really never be too fresh or too clean), but in this environment, a post-Gauntlet shower is a MUST.
Yesterday, I had hopped out of my post-gym shower and was getting dressed. Despite the generally miserable heat and humidity, I was pleased that I pretty much had the locker room to myself. I reflected on how relaxing it is to get dressed at my leisure, without having to share space and wait for a spot at the mirror on account of all the other bitches in the gym. I reflected too soon.
Because I have had a number of problems at the gym, starting with Treadmill Bitch, continuing with the skank who stepped to me about my underwear habits, and culminating in the horror that was Twat-Washer, I'm always on the lookout for saggy, old harpies trying to step to me. Therefore, I was unprepared for someone outside of this demographic to assault my dignity while naked and dressing.
As I was dressing, all of a sudden I heard the scampering of feet. A little boy, about 6 or 7 years old, ran up the stairs with his mother in tow. He ran around the bank of lockers I was standing at, froze staring at me, pointed, and shouted, "BOOBIES!" at the top of his lungs. I just stood there, mouth hanging open, completely dumbfounded at having just been sexually harassed by a first-grader in a ladies locker room.
His mother then appeared, and took her son by the shoulder. Amazingly, she neither apologized to me, nor chastized her son for running up to a naked stranger and screaming about her tits. I gave the mother a "what the fuck?!"-type look. She gave me a half-assed shrug which said to me, "Well, he IS a child. I can't control him."
I had to speak up. For one thing, my hatred for children is well-documented, and when they behave in this manner, I want to squash them like cockroaches. The more important issue, however, is the fact that any male child old enough to scream about a topless woman's "boobies" has no business anywhere that adult women expect to get naked without having to hear shit about it. In dressing rooms, locker rooms, doctor's offices, spas, etc., there is an expectation that you can take your fucking shirt off and not have some moron make asinine comments about your tits. I can appreciate moms needing to take their very young sons into these sacred female spaces from time to time, and that is acceptable ONCE IN A WHILE when your son is an infant or a toddler, and considers a breast no different than a fucking slice of pizza. However, the second your son starts hollering and laughing hysterically about having seen a woman's breasts, he is TOO OLD to be running around in an environment where some women might feel self-conscious about this. I told this woman my feelings regarding this.
"I'm really uncomfortable with your son being here," I said. "He is obviously an age where it is inappropriate for him to be here."
"Oh," said the mom, looking entirely unabashed. "Well, he is a child. He doesn't mean what he's saying."
Yeah, bitch, keep that attitude right up. In ten years you'll be sitting at your brat's rape trial telling everyone in earshot that he didn't mean it if you keep not only excusing this type of bullshit behavior, but enabling it. She ushered her son out while I glared furiously at the pair of them.
I realize that I am not particularly shy about showing my body to the masses. I realize that I've put full-frontal nudity of myself on this website, for anyone to peruse, and that's fine by me. However, every time someone looks at those pictures, I don't have to put up with the bullshit experience of an idiot running up to me and shouting "Boobies!" Furthermore, I put those pictures on my site on MY terms. Similarly, when I go out in public wearing low-cut shirts, I am doing so on MY terms. When I am putting on lotion, weighing myself, brushing my hair, and doing all the other little primpy things I do in the ladies locker room after my shower, I am NOT doing it for an audience, and it is not wrong for me to expect not to have one in the fucking women's locker room.
Obviously, I've had problems with women not leaving me alone in the past. Putting up with this crap from a FIRST-GRADE BOY in the locker room is exponentially more aggravating because his idiot mother not only allows this, but because he's not even supposed to be in the locker room in the first place. All mothers should consider themselves warned: the next time I see a shrieking boy running around in a place where women are supposed to get naked with a modicum of privacy, I am going to raise hell and not stop until your kid dissolves in hysterical tears. If I have to be verbally assaulted by some kid commenting on my fucking feminine features, I will instill upon the kid a lifelong fear of breasts and the angry bitches behind them. I will ensure that your kid is fucking traumatized. These boobies bite back, so keep your male children OUT of my fucking locker room!
Yesterday, I had hopped out of my post-gym shower and was getting dressed. Despite the generally miserable heat and humidity, I was pleased that I pretty much had the locker room to myself. I reflected on how relaxing it is to get dressed at my leisure, without having to share space and wait for a spot at the mirror on account of all the other bitches in the gym. I reflected too soon.
Because I have had a number of problems at the gym, starting with Treadmill Bitch, continuing with the skank who stepped to me about my underwear habits, and culminating in the horror that was Twat-Washer, I'm always on the lookout for saggy, old harpies trying to step to me. Therefore, I was unprepared for someone outside of this demographic to assault my dignity while naked and dressing.
As I was dressing, all of a sudden I heard the scampering of feet. A little boy, about 6 or 7 years old, ran up the stairs with his mother in tow. He ran around the bank of lockers I was standing at, froze staring at me, pointed, and shouted, "BOOBIES!" at the top of his lungs. I just stood there, mouth hanging open, completely dumbfounded at having just been sexually harassed by a first-grader in a ladies locker room.
His mother then appeared, and took her son by the shoulder. Amazingly, she neither apologized to me, nor chastized her son for running up to a naked stranger and screaming about her tits. I gave the mother a "what the fuck?!"-type look. She gave me a half-assed shrug which said to me, "Well, he IS a child. I can't control him."
I had to speak up. For one thing, my hatred for children is well-documented, and when they behave in this manner, I want to squash them like cockroaches. The more important issue, however, is the fact that any male child old enough to scream about a topless woman's "boobies" has no business anywhere that adult women expect to get naked without having to hear shit about it. In dressing rooms, locker rooms, doctor's offices, spas, etc., there is an expectation that you can take your fucking shirt off and not have some moron make asinine comments about your tits. I can appreciate moms needing to take their very young sons into these sacred female spaces from time to time, and that is acceptable ONCE IN A WHILE when your son is an infant or a toddler, and considers a breast no different than a fucking slice of pizza. However, the second your son starts hollering and laughing hysterically about having seen a woman's breasts, he is TOO OLD to be running around in an environment where some women might feel self-conscious about this. I told this woman my feelings regarding this.
"I'm really uncomfortable with your son being here," I said. "He is obviously an age where it is inappropriate for him to be here."
"Oh," said the mom, looking entirely unabashed. "Well, he is a child. He doesn't mean what he's saying."
Yeah, bitch, keep that attitude right up. In ten years you'll be sitting at your brat's rape trial telling everyone in earshot that he didn't mean it if you keep not only excusing this type of bullshit behavior, but enabling it. She ushered her son out while I glared furiously at the pair of them.
I realize that I am not particularly shy about showing my body to the masses. I realize that I've put full-frontal nudity of myself on this website, for anyone to peruse, and that's fine by me. However, every time someone looks at those pictures, I don't have to put up with the bullshit experience of an idiot running up to me and shouting "Boobies!" Furthermore, I put those pictures on my site on MY terms. Similarly, when I go out in public wearing low-cut shirts, I am doing so on MY terms. When I am putting on lotion, weighing myself, brushing my hair, and doing all the other little primpy things I do in the ladies locker room after my shower, I am NOT doing it for an audience, and it is not wrong for me to expect not to have one in the fucking women's locker room.
Obviously, I've had problems with women not leaving me alone in the past. Putting up with this crap from a FIRST-GRADE BOY in the locker room is exponentially more aggravating because his idiot mother not only allows this, but because he's not even supposed to be in the locker room in the first place. All mothers should consider themselves warned: the next time I see a shrieking boy running around in a place where women are supposed to get naked with a modicum of privacy, I am going to raise hell and not stop until your kid dissolves in hysterical tears. If I have to be verbally assaulted by some kid commenting on my fucking feminine features, I will instill upon the kid a lifelong fear of breasts and the angry bitches behind them. I will ensure that your kid is fucking traumatized. These boobies bite back, so keep your male children OUT of my fucking locker room!
Labels: destroy all children, exercise drama, nudity, stank vaginas
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