F*ck You Science, I'll Hug My G*ddamn Dog All I Want

So let’s take some quick stock of the world around us.

Cancer? Check. AIDS? Check. Pollution? Cough and check.

You would think in the year 2016, all these “scientists” would finally be earning their keep and figuring some shit out. Well, you’d be wrong. But, oh, the guys (there are no girl scientists, right?) are busy all right.

Wanna study anatomy?

They’re busy figuring out dogs don’t like to be hugged. Really, you sciency, nerdy people, this is what you’re paid to do? What happened to being super geniuses, or at least super villians in the comic books? Suddenly, I want to become a scientist. Where do I sign up to earn a hefty check for doing nothing? Or is this an elected position? (ZING!)

So the author of this theory based it on the following:

"Fortunately for me, the Internet abounds with photographs of people and their pets. If you put the search terms "hug dog" or "love dog" into something like Google Image Search, or Flickr, you will get a virtually infinite scroll of pictures of people and their children hugging their pet dogs. I decided to look at a random sample of 250 such pictures. I used a variety of criteria to try to keep the data as clean and precise as possible. I only used photos where the dog's face was clearly visible. I also eliminated situations where one might expect the dog's stress level to rise because of factors other than being hugged (such as when someone lifts a large dog off the ground while hugging them)."

OK, so this dog looks petrified. To be honest, so would I.

OK, so maybe I only watched Weird Science one time, but I think I know enough to see the glaring flaw based on his research. If you have a presence on Flickr, or your pictures easily show up in a GIS, I think it is very safe to make the argument you are a self absorbed, annoying as hell twit. Why? Because, most likely, you have tons of clichéd pictures (cough, selfies, cough) that you constantly shoot out to your social media. I don’t have the time to follow my hypothesis (look it up, and, NO, I didn’t need SpellCheck for that) but I am willing to bet these same Flickr pictures came from accounts that were also chock full of pictures of food, drinks, leaves, cemeteries, train tracks, peace signs, duck lips and other over used imagery.

And, look, we all know dogs are smart. These dogs know that their owners are kinda douchy. They can smell that, after all. So, of course when an owner throws his/her arms around Poochie, the dog is all like, “OK, hoomin. Enough. You’re nice and all and give me a good home. But…you can be kind of a jit stain, and that’s why I hump the couch when you’re not around.” You look at some of the pictures in question, and you’re not seeing anxiety or stress. You’re seeing shame.

For further proof, I just performed an experiment. Anyone see the Human Centipede movies? Well, that will be my next experiment. I just went and hugged my dog. Guess what? His ears didn’t go down; in fact they perked up. He didn’t look away from me or tense up, he sank into me. He didn’t make any moves to escape my embrace. Once again, science, you FAIL! You think I’m gonna believe you about global warming now? HA!

Inside job. Duh.

So I let my boy out in the front yard because he just wolfed dinner and usually has to take a smash. He does his usual ritual, and just as he gets to poopin’ he stares at me. OK, science people, I imagine you are working around the clock to figure this Zika virus thing out, you surely can’t tell me why he looks at me when he’s deucing.

Well, motherf……. OK, again this info is all suspect. But, can we get you dorks working on more pressing things like curing hangovers or why whatever line I choose moves the slowest?

The Running Man

Tonight, I did something I hate to do.

I went for a run. Let me be clear. I hate running. I loathe running.

So, why am I running? Well, for the last 4 years, I’ve been doing the Warrior Dash,

"Boy, I hope this is chocolate milk. Nope, not chocolate milk."

one of a multitude of 5ks that are run through all kinds of mostly harmless obstacles. Of all the similar “mud runs”, it by far has the best name and least daunting/challenging obstacles, so it’s right up my alley. It’s probably the most competitive thing I do, so I do wanna set myself up to do well. And that means running. Running more than 5k, and running once or twice a week as it approaches. Unfortunately, the WD is usually at the very end of summer, so I have to keep running all freaking summer. No way I’m letting that 60 year old woman with the walker beat me. Again.

Every spring, I go through the ritual of buying new running shoes. I spend an exorbitant amount of money (you know, like over 20 bucks) on some new revolutionary shoe with all kinds of gizmos and “technologies.” Things like better rebounding, softer cushioning, space age polymers, breathable fabrics, lighter weight. I find I have this internal, angry dialogue with the sneakers. “Look, I spent an exorbitant amount of money on you. So I damn well am going to get my money’s worth. I am absolutely going to beat the shit out of you this summer. You GD well better earn your keep. I don’t want any blisters! You hear me? No blisters! With all your high falutin “technology” you fuckers better make me run faster and have less pain! Got it?” And then I go yell at the toilet because it runs more than I do.

You would think it would be simple. Put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. Repeat, preferably faster. Try not to fall. Repeat again. Fun! Last year, I actually discovered there are different types of running. Do you strike heel first or toe? Maybe flat footed? I tried a method where you alternated your breathing when your feet struck the ground. So, you alternated your breathing every three strikes; breathe in on left foot strike, exhale in three so your inhale is on a right foot strike. Supposedly, this makes you faster and prevents injury. In reality, you run like a flaming dorkwad because you’re constantly counting in your head and trying to time that all important frantic gasp of air with the proper foot strike. This isn’t very fun nor does it make running any more enjoyable. It doesn’t prevent injury, in fact it promotes it because you’re busy counting strikes as opposed to minding the other runners around you.

Then I tried this thing called pose running. In theory, I guess it made sense. You lean forward a bit, to the point where you’re basically running so you’re not falling over. Cross fitters swear by this type of running. You also “pull” your legs. It’s funny it’s called “pose” because I felt most of my ‘pose’ was best labeled as ‘awkward flamingo.’ (Which, by the way, totally sounds like a yoga pose. “Ok, everybody, downward dog into awkward flamingo. Namaste!”) I found at best, it difficult to hit (as it’s supposed to be) and if anything increases your energy expenditure so you gas out much faster. So, I’ll just settle for the type of running that results in leg soreness and general pain for the next few days.

Running is painful. It’s absolutely horrible for your knees. I read somewhere that the act of running is like dropping the Refrigerator on your knees. Did you read that right? Not a refrigerator, but the Refrigerator, Chicago D lineman from the 80s and 90s William ”Refrigerator” Perry. And he weighed 335 pounds! You can get blisters on your ankles (though I found using the lace lock actually helps a lot).

"We both contain a lot of food."

Shin splints, foot issues, chaffing of man bits. I seriously don’t get the obsession with it. I would like to think the act of running is some sort of “escape”, but we all run in circles, so that’s not it.

Does anyone else have the complex that it feels like everyone is watching them? As I am making my laps, I feel people are not just looking at me, but staring at me. Like not just the occasional “Hey, there’s that hot guy running by again.” It’s more like a “Jesus Christ, look at that hairy mess huffing and puffing. He’s probably running from the law because he just stole a bunch of Iron Maiden t-shirts.” I am constantly wiping my face, because I know it’s probably covered in boogers, snot and sweat.

Every track always has that one thin guy with such a good stride he looks like he’s from fucking Black Swan. This guy just glides and his feet barely touch the ground. He’s usually wearing a tank top, making 7 minute laps and not breathing heavy. I am pretty sure these types are on PEDS (performance enhancing drugs) and will die shortly. While that’s probably not true, I find it helps make me feel better.

At tracks, there is a Code. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know who came up with it, hell, I don’t even know how I learned it, but there is a Code. Maybe it’s better called etiquette. Maybe it’s a collection of common sense and observation. Hell, if some dunderhead like me can pick up the Code, then surely any other novice or numb skull runner can quickly pick it up. Problem is when people don’t observe the Code. For example, walkers move to the side of the track. Leave the middle open for the runners. If you are walking with a friend and two wide, still, walk to the side. You two aren’t going to get lost.

"I....I feel like I could run a marathon."

There is nothing worse than coming up on a twosome (or worse, a threesome. A track is one place I do not want to see a threesome.) and they refuse to move over and give up the middle of the track. So now it’s on me to see if there is a runner coming at me and if we will meet near said annoying twosome, or is there some young kid coming up behind me and how best to avoid a collision. There’s nothing more annoying than having to run off the track to avoid the two dipshits who are busy talking about squirrels and Zumba classes. But, I always get my revenge. I make sure to crop dust them as I pass. I don’t even care if they can hear it; in fact I hope they do. (Yes, I am aware it may be against the Code to audibly fart, but I’m not claiming to know the entirety of the Code.)

So here’s what you have to understand about me. I am 6 foot tall, and 200 pounds on a good (or bad, depending) day. I’ve already gone through one knee. Once this train get’s a-rollin’ it takes a while to put on the brakes. And if I absolutely have to take someone out, I assure you it will be a spectacular collision with arms and legs flailing, sunglasses, hats and earphones displaced and hopefully near a bunch of empty boxes and a fruit stand just like in the movies.

What’s worse is mornings, when a bunch of moms (nary few a MILF) all meet up at the same time, and form some sort of stroller convoy with any number of demon seed. They hog up the entire width of the track. How rude. These Stroller Patrollers, as I call them, ignore the running world around them as the kibbutz about how smart precious Connor or Madison is at such an early age. Hey, here’s an idea; keep your future Presidents and Senators out of harm’s way; i.e. my way.

My favorite marathon picture.

All my runs seem to start the same way. Within the first quarter mile, my lungs are already wheezing and my mind is already whining. “This sucks. I hate this. What’s the point? Three miles of this shit? OK, this is the LAST YEAR I am doing all this. What was that sound? Did something just pop in my knee? Shit, I bet it was my larynx. I probably just tore my larynx. And, man, I should NOT have had that suspect burrito from 7-11 on the way here. I need to fart…… I just farted. I hope it wasn’t a cheek slapper and that lady I just passed heard it. Uh oh, wait a minute, was that a shart?” My mind runs faster than me.

Now, I don’t subscribe to this “runner’s high” phenomenon.” I think it’s all hullabaloo, along with things like “consciousness” and “enlightenment.” All utter bullshit, designed to torture people. What I do get, however, at the end of any of my runs, is an immense sense of self-satisfaction. This is a very odd feeling for me. I am proud of my accomplishment. I get all full of myself. Suddenly, my brain is all like, “Way to go! Now let’s go buy $200 of Under Armour so we can sit around the house!! Athletically sit around the house!!” Like buying a $40 shirt will actually make me run any faster or look any less awkward. However, if it makes my moobs jiggle less, then $40 is a steal.

At the end of my run, I grab a Gatorade from the car and walk one last lap, but in the opposite direction I was running. It’s inevitable that as I walk past people, I expect them to think, “Jesus! That dude is sweating his ass off, and all he’s doing is walking. Man, TBNR.”

The worst part is this is just the beginning. I still have over 4 months to get myself in shape. I might even run a few ‘regular’ 5Ks, just to see where I’m at. All this getting in shape now, all for one freaking Warrior Dash. However, I will confess, the feeling I get when I cross that finish line is pretty damn rewarding.

Maybe rewarding enough to do it all over again next year.

Maybe.