When it comes to selecting a treadmill to run on at the gym, it’s my belief that it’s very similar to that of selecting a urinal in the men’s room. In other words, choose the treadmill furthest from another human being, and at the very least, leave a gap of at least one treadmill in between people. The gaps are to be filled when there are no other options available, and even then, try and find the treadmill between at least one attractive woman.
Yes, I’m aware that my rationale and decision to write about something to trite and petty makes me sound psychotic, but these are thoughts that genuinely swirl through my head, when I’m on treadmill #17 out of 25 available, and in spite of the fact that pretty much 1-10 were completely unoccupied, two grown men insisted on using #16 and #18.
There was once an episode of King of the Hill somewhere in the 13th season, where the non-Hank plot of the episode was that Peggy, Dale and Minh realized that Bill was the perfect representation of the every man in the United States, and basically that anything he liked was worth putting some chips into on the stock market. Discreetly, of course. After a while, the troika began to make some money on stock market, and started to enjoy some of the luxuries that an influx of cash provides.
Eventually, it slips to Bill that he’s the guinea pig to them, and once made aware that his decisions had impact on others, the talent of inadvertently picking stock market winners vanishes as he becomes overly self-conscious of the things he likes, and the troika not only starts tanking at the stock market, they ultimately lose all their luxuries in the process and come back to zero.
Now there’s absolutely nothing to be proud of in comparing myself to Bill Dauterive, because in the show’s hierarchy, he’s the world’s biggest loser, in spite of his unknown wealthy background, fluency in Cajun French, and numerous talents, hidden because he’s the show’s punching bag. But in context of this post, I do feel like I can sometimes relate in being somewhat of an everyman.
I was at breakfast, and while waiting to pay my bill, I noticed a family walk in the door; it looked pretty clear that it was a couple coming in to have breakfast with their dad. Watching them walk in, dad looked like your typical crotchety old white male, with a scowl on his face, and generally looking miserable with his life. As for the couple, the wife appeared to be late-thirties, possibly early-forties, but still attractive, but as far as the husband was concerned, I couldn’t look beyond the massive beer belly that was protruding bulbously from his torso.
The next thought that ran through my head was simply, “how much does it suck to be her, that her husband turned into such a fat guy?”
This post helps if you imagine it being yelled to you by Bernie Mac (R.I.P.)
What is WRONG with you motherfuckers that can’t seem to grasp this idea?
I don’t understand men who think it’s perfectly adequate to flush the commode before or during their urination, and then walk away afterward, often times leaving a bowl full of piss behind them. The fuck is wrong with you people?
Flush the fucking toilet after you use it. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter if you flushed it before you used it, flush it againafter you used it. It’s not calculus, it’s not even fucking math. It’s a simple concept of disposing of your waste for the sanitation and consideration of others. I will never understand why there are people who can’t seem to grasp this very simple concept.
I was sitting in traffic this morning, which is nothing out of the ordinary. Unfortunately, it was worse than it usually was due to the fact that for no apparent reason, six straight traffic signals were out, and the vast populous of Atlanta is completely oblivious to the rules of the 4-way stop in such conditions.
On more than one (fifty) occasion(s), I watched as people sped off into a turn lane, dividing lane, oncoming traffic, or some other form of asphalt not designated for regular automotive traffic, and then cut in front of some schlub too slow-reacting to prevent impatient and inconsiderate assholes from cutting in front of not just them, but every single law-abiding citizen who opt to grind it out with the rest of the pack.
It’s times like these that I wish that for one day, I could be a police officer. Not to do anything dramatic and go off on high-excitement, high-speed car chases, bust drug dealers, stop crime and be a hero. No, I’d love to be a police officer for a single day, just so I could troll the ever-living shit out of law breakers, and by “troll,” I mean enforce the fucking law.
It should come as no surprise, but I’m very much a creature of habit. Repetition doesn’t really faze me like it fazes others, and I can go numerous periods of time eating the same things, doing the same activities and seeing the same programs for probably more than the average person does. I like routine, and I like there to be some degree of normalcy and repetition in my life; it’s comforting, effortless, and once engrained, simply a part of daily living. Maybe this is to say that I’ve got a facet of my brain that’s possibly autistic or at least obsessive-compulsive, due to this desire for routines and repetition.
This is no more obvious than the fact that I’m bothered probably way more than I should be when things nudge me off my routine or my expected courses of actions. Whether it’s another person’s complete lack of spatial awareness that causes them to aimlessly walk and consume space which encroaches on my line, or a person that coincidentally happens to be at the workout station that I was planning on using next, and I’ve already accomplished all my other lifts, people that disrupt my rhythm aggravate the ever living shit out of me.
But the worst of all perpetrators to me are the people that insist on taking the parking space that I’ve been trying to park in consistently for almost three years now. It is evident now that my preferred parking space is clearly the most valuable parking space in the entire fucking lot, based on how many people insist on having it now. But seriously, my days become monumental emotional uphill battles on mornings in which I can’t get my parking spot. Nothing infuriates me worse or faster than seeing that some motherfucker has gotten to it before I did, and I feel nothing but unadulterated anger for the few minutes it takes me to find another not-as-adequate-but-passable parking space.
I really, really want to write something about this story about how IKEAs in mainland China are being raided on a regular basis by mainlanders who invade the stores, and abuse the showrooms and display furniture by taking naps in the beds, lay all over the sofas, and let their kids run around unsupervised. About how it’s completely uncivilized, inconsiderate and disgusting, but mostly just how uncivilized it all is.
Despite the fact that there’s so much I’d really want to actually say, the only words that seem capable of formulating in my head are unfriendly remarks about how barbaric and uncivilized the Chinese are, that the world really doesn’t have a lot to fear about their secluded society plotting anything grander than scheming to get into IKEA before others so they can camp the beds, and other insensitive remarks about how Koreans are vastly superior on so many levels over the Chinese.
So, I guess I won’t say anything at all about the matter.
