The Ridiculous Way I Got My Last Job

It shouldn’t have been this easy. I just should have known. Finding a job is generally a difficult thing for me. You see, I have a set of very specific skills…. I had been out of work for a few months at this point, unemployment benefits thankfully keeping me out of a cardboard box or living in a Walmart.

"Maybe I just need to keep a better eye on  my family."

One of my interests is health and fitness. So I had been pursuing jobs in that area. I came across a job for a beverage company; for the sake of this blog, let’s just call it WidgetAde (WA). WA was a rather popular drink, but had been waning for a few years now. I did my due diligence, and discovered, in fact, it wasn’t really healthy. It was rather sugary

Sugar is a vitamin, right?

and some reports on the ‘Net told me it wasn’t quite full of all the nutrients it had claimed. There was actually a lawsuit against them for misleading advertising. Sounds attractive, right? Well, I needed a job, and I seem to specialize in working for fucked up brands.

To the best of my recollection, this is how events unfolded. I believe is was a Monday when I sent my resume to them. The following day I already got a reply and a quick phone call. I passed that test, and had a call the next day with the next higher up. I love phone interviews. I really think that’s the best way to go. My dress code for most phoners is pajama pants, flips, and if I feel inspired, a ratty concert T. I am sure the alert reader will notice nothing about underwear.

Phoners are great. I pace around the K Theory office like a panther pacing in its’ cage. I am very animated. My hands move. I walk around. I fist pump when I think I nailed a question. I take quick, small swigs of water so I have a clear voice. Thank God, we don’t do this shit on Skype. Or even real life. I am pretty sure I wouldn’t have nailed the job if I showed up in matching Simpson pajama pants and slippers. Unshaven, unshowered, perhaps a bit of flop sweat if I was nervous.  “So, Kev, tell me a little bit about yourself?” I immediately pop up from my chair and wander around like Jeff Goldblum. “Well, I am an Aries that likes long walks on the beach…” (Scratches balls.)

"Sooo....am I hired? I will need to buy more shirts."

Second call lead to third call. I was doing my homework, studying up on WA and seeing how they were handling some poor press and the haters every product has on their FB page. A few times I asked questions and the answer was, “Ask the next guy that.” Lotta cooks in this kitchen.

Fourth call lead to the big mahoff, the chief, the big cheese. Since I’m me, and this was another phoner, I aced it. I had concerns about this gig. I would be an independent contractor-or 1099 as it’s called after the tax form that takes away most of my damn money. Zero benefits, but I got a branded company van. I was not in love with the brand, as it was clearly not as healthy as it touted itself. I actually really struggled with that part a lot. Outside of mixing, I believe soda is the devil, and this stuff isn’t much different. That’s probably why I use so little of it in my whiskey and rum. I felt a tinge of guilt that I could be peddling this stuff to people who aren’t truly getting what they think they are getting. I could at least console myself I that, if asked, I could recommend a sister water product that was just, well, water.

I am many things right now. And calm is not one of them.

I believe it was the following Monday I was offered the job. I signed the papers. There was never a face to face. No one ever laid eyes on me, outside my Linked in profile pic, which was shot at a distance. I actually had a pro head shot taken, but realized that was not in my best interest, so went with the far away shot. PhotoShop can't fix this mess. There was never a blood or urine test. Or sperm, if the nurse was sexy and friendly enough.

 I was getting a company car to drive. Never a test.

I should have known. I just should have known. Too easy, too quick.

The only thing more ridiculous was the way I lost it…

(Part 1 of three. Part 2 coming soon.)

That Asshole on The Boardwalk

I was on vacation a few weeks ago. You probably didn’t know it because I didn’t post 30 pictures of the beach, dinners and the boardwalk every day. Not to get too off topic here, but speaking of vacation pics, can we all just call a moratorium on the over-clichéd pictures? No more shots of your pasty white legs on the beach. No more shots of your fucking dinner. “OMG!! A PLATE OF CRABS!! THAT LOOKS LIKE EVERY OTHER FUCKING PLATE OF CRABS EVERYWHERE ELSE IN THE COUNTRY.” No more shots of drinks/beers sitting on a dock or bay or whatnot.

"Stop chasing me, you pervert!"

You know what I do when I see the endless stream of vacation pictures on someone’s social media? I march right over to that person’s unoccupied house and rub my junk on all their door handles. Car handles, too. You would think their neighbors would complain, but when they see Big Kev a-comin’ over with his junk hanging out, they know they can pool hop and raid the unlocked shed all week. You’re welcome, neighbors. Alas, this post is not about those assholes.

For the last 4 years, I have been doing this thing called the Warrior Dash. For those who don’t know, the Dash is one in a growing number of “mud runs” or Obstacle Course Races (OCR).

This girl has never run a Spartan race in her life. Guaranteed.

"Ugh, this is worse than what I do for my boyfriend!"

"OK, we're here. Where is one cup?"

Someone finally figured out that running is the most boring physical activity to do on the face of the earth. So why not snaz it up with things like cargo nets, fire, barbed wire and, of course mud. WD is really the only ‘competitive’ thing I do all year. And by ‘competitive,’ I mean something I actually train for; both running and in the gym. The Dash is by far the least hard core of any of the similar 5k runs I am aware of. I am routinely beat by guys older and heavier than me. I am also routinely beat by guys dressed as Ghostbusters, Bronies, Ultimate Warriors and Ninja Turtles. Yes, you do get a participation medal for finishing the course. But for someone who is nothing close to a “runner” or “athlete” like myself, it’s my own gold medal. Except it isn’t made of gold. But it can open beers. Fair trade. How many tall boys are your medals opening up, Phelps? Thought so.

"I'm just gonna shower after my morning run."

For months, I will force myself to run. Now, you would think when I go on vacation, I would just get hammered all day and sit on my ass. And there are some days I do just that. But, in a cruel twist of fate, I have found I actually enjoy running while on vacation. Shocking, right? So why does someone who hates running go running 3 times while on vacation?

Atmosphere. Running to and then on, the boardwalk, you just can’t beat it. My love affair with the beach is well documented. Most mornings, I can see Dolphins near the beach, which is kinda odd because you would think they would be in training camp now. So to get the rare chance to actually run next to the beach is pretty damn invigorating. The atmosphere is made up of many things; the sun, the breeze, the people, the sounds, the boardwalk shops. There’s so much going on, it’s like playing a human game of Frogger. I like it because you do have to keep your head on a swivel, and it mimics running in a real 5k. Oh, and the chicks that wear tight UnderArmour type clothes; they’re pretty cool, too. It’s really hard to ruin this precious experience.

Except for that guy. That one guy. That one asshole on the boardwalk.

I am sure every boardwalk has one. It’s probably written in the town ordinance somewhere; the douche bag law. I saw this guy twice. Imagine a bright, sunny morning. The boardwalk is bustling with activity; walkers, runners, bikers, those douchebag hipsters in the reclined bicycles. Every age group and demographic represented. There I am, huffing and puffing. Sweaty man boobs in the salty air. Even in my favorite place to run, it’s still a struggle for me. Dodging people who are oblivious, lost on their cell phones. People who just seem to exist to suddenly stop in front of me for no apparent reason. I’m doing my best. We should all be happy we’re out there, sweating our collective asses off, trying to make ourselves better. And then I see… him.

He is to the side of the boardwalk. He is under a roofed area. He has no shirt on. He has a muscular chest and six pack abs. His tan torso is adorned with a few big tattoos.

A lil' somethin' for the lady readers. All two of you.

His hair refuses to move in the sea breeze. Even though I already don’t like this guy, I am jealous. I want that body, minus the fugly tats. Here the rest of the world is running by. And this asshole is doing  jumping split squats?

Ugh, really dude? This is what we’re doing here? You can’t just run like everyone else? Sure, jumping split squats are a fantastic exercise. But that’s not what we’re doing here. We’re running, that’s what we’re doing. I don’t know how that got to be the rule, but it is. No one wants to see anyone else doing push ups or lunges or sit ups. You can do yoga on the beach, but that’s as far as it goes. But, no, this guy’s gotta be peacocking on the side of the boards. Asshole.

The next day I go for a run again. It’s another beautiful day on the boards, and I happen to fall behind a pack of tight Spandex asses where I can breathe loudly and no one is creeped out. And, then, I see him.

This time, he is modest. He is actually off the boards, on a street that runs up to the boardwalk. He is in a driveway that sinks below street level to the garage. He is walking on his hands back and forth.

"Hey ladies. Just alligning my chakras. And I just shaved my bunghole."

Really, dude, are you kidding me here? Walking on your hands? In someone’s driveway? This isn’t freaking American Ninja Warrior here. Just a bunch of schlubs running up and down on the boardwalk. I imagine this is some house wife’s Pepsi wet dream or whatnot, but i-we-don’t need to be seeing this shit. We get it, dude, you’re ripped. I suppose you did the rest of us brothers a favor by not actually running faster than us on the boardwalk. On your hands. Really, at that point in my run, if I thought I had anything left in the tank, I would have run over, knocked you literally on your ass then ran away. But I had already been running for four minutes and was pretty gassed. Lucky you.

She's running because she hears quarters jingling.

The third day I went running, and it was glorious. Sun was out, the cool ocean breezes muting the heat. Asses to tight you could bounce a quarter off them, which is why I always run with a pocketful of change. And Mr. Asshole nowhere to be seen. Maybe I had already missed him. Maybe he already spiderwalked the length of the boardwalk. Maybe he ran the length of the boardwalk on top of the hand rails, I don’t know, nor do I care. It was the best run I had all week.

The Monday ADHD Quick and Dirty Slumpbuster Post

My vaguest recollection of my earliest experience this morning goes a little like this:

Monday morning: Hey Kev, how you doin’?

Me: Um, OK. It’s early. What do you want? I was just dreaming I was banging that Harley Quinn chick…

"You hit me, I hit you, deal?"

MM:< Kicks me right in the balls.>

Cut to alarm going off.

It’s been that kind of day, dear readers. Monday has just had it in for me. Work was work. I went to the warehouse club to get gas, and the pump didn’t recognize my card. I was a little heated, but I calmed down, and went inside to get a new one. While I generally don’t like my picture being taken, I even did a goofy face with a “thumbs up.” “Ha,“  I thought, “karma will appreciate my attempt to bring just a bit of humor into the world and shine upon me.” AAaaaand it turns out the card printer machine doesn’t work “while it’s raining.” Somewhere, karma is hanging out with Monday Morning having a good ol chuckle at Kev today.

This particular Monday reminds me of this great song by the Bottle Rockets.  Something I think most of us “ham and eggers” identify with.

I decide to carbo load on 5 soft pretzels. I realize I have the whole night in front of me, and it’s been a while since I wrote anything. I don’t know about you guys, but there sure has been a lot of hate and negativity in the world. So I’m deciding to make the most lemonade out of my mostly lemon day. A quick, dirty stream of consciousness blog entry. Take a blank space and create some everlasting art.  Maybe I will feel better if I think I can add a few laughs to your day. No real theme or order, just a few things that come to mind.

I’ve always believed that time moves faster during the summer. I don’t know if the gubbermint secretly takes a minute out of a day here or there, but time sure does feel to go much faster than any other season. To that end, summer weekends seem to absolutely fly by, even the rare ones when I don’t get black out drunk and wake up on a neighbor’s porch. Lazy weekends seem to fly by. The collision with Monday morning is brutal.

As with all summers, this one seems to be flying by. Wasn’t it just Memorial Day? 4th of July? 2015? Sadly, all the signs of summer coming to an end are creeping in. Halloween stores have signs up. (And I love Halloween, but this is waayy to early.) Fantasy football talk. The 4^th of July in Target? Fireworks, picnic supplies, outdoor stuff. The 5^th of July at Target? Pencils, notebooks, schoolbags. Enjoy your summer, kiddies!

Monday morning is never pleasant when you don’t especially like your job. Like the song above says, “Monday every time I turn around.” Even my black soul is like, “This shit again? I’m already almost dead, enough!”

I swear, sometime it feels like Monday is 80% of the week. If I can just make it through, usually, the rest of the week seems to go by quicker. Drinking mouthwash seems to speed that process up as well. And keeps me minty fresh.

So when you’re not happy with your job, you look at other jobs. There’s one site I go to where they use this picture:

I don’t know about you guys, but that girl totally has that “I will fuck anything that moves” smile. She knows it. I know it. Everybody there knows it. I guess that’s one way to encourage applications. I mean, I guess it’s obvious, but if you ever spent anytime online looking for a job (before you inevitably get frustrated and watch puppy videos), didja ever notice all the people in the pictures look insanely  happy to be working there? They’re all smiles, white teeth, happy, rainbows and unicorn farts. Where are these UN approved mythical crack dens these people work?  

It's 8AM in the morning, and we are soooo happy!!

Yay cube rats!!

Next week, Sheila had to walk over hot coals for failing to get 5 extended warranty plans.

We want YOU to join a company none of us models work at!!

Where the hell is this Mickey D's?

No fucking way this broad works at Walmart, and if she does, she sure as hell ain't this happy about it.

Here’s a frightening video about being a cashier at Walmart. This is particularly scary video for many reasons. Some high ranking suit thought this was a realistic representation of an experience at Walmart. OK, quick show of hands, have you EVER had an experience like this at Walmart? Of course not. This video is also scary because over 683,000 people have watched it so far. 683K. And my man Darrell is doing his best to sell it. Still, I am sure this is a legit training video in Walmart.

And for the record, I am not making fun of anyone who works retail. I spend a lot of time in various retail/grocery stores for my current job. Working retail is not an easy gig at all.

So today I bought some Pokemon underwear. Now, we play the waiting game…

I see blue balls.

..

I was gonna use the above joke on my FB page today, but decided to put it here as a special bonus for the few brave souls who read my stuff.

My Monday blues are strong this particular Monday. Viewings of Cops and the Maury Povich show are not lifting my spirits. I decide to GIS “hot girls who think I’m hot.” It comes back all memes. Thanks, Google. 

That's all I got today, kids. I hope your day was better than mine.

See you tomorrow?

The Real War in America's Public Bathrooms; The Air Dryers

I am growing tired of our freedoms being taken away. Everywhere we go, we get less choice. It’s GD Unamerican, I tell you. Well, I for one, am making a stand and demand we get our choices back. My first step in this war is the men’s room. (I assume the ladies feel the same way, but my visit time in the ladies’ room has been severely limited as of late. So you broads need to stick up for yourselves here.)

Can we please just get rid of the hand dryers? In more and more places, the good old paper towel is being replaced by these inefficient blowdryers.

The Art Department at K Theory is just phoning it in these days

Yea, yea, the argument has been “hand dryers create less waste.” All over, we see stickers proclaiming that hand dryers are saving the rainforest, keeping the earth green and hated Batman Vs Superman. It’s time to really examine all these fantastic claims.

Now I like being kind to Mother Earth. I recycle all my empties. I try to be moderate with my utility use. I actively skip shower day and wash my hair less frequently. I’ll wear the same things around the house for weeks. I only flush number twos. I don’t have offspring that will only create generations more drain on the planet’s limited resources.

Just a lil' eye opener before work...

Is the “rain forest” even a great rallying point anymore? Remember when the urgency was that the ”rain forests will disappear in five years” like twenty years ago? Well, we barely hear about the rain forests anymore, and to the best of my simple understanding, they’re still around and breeding venomous spiders. So, all this “saving” has gotten us what? I’m seriously starting to doubt this whole recycling idea. With all the recycling this country does, shouldn’t things like paper and aluminum be getting cheaper? All I know is the price of my high octane, rot-gut cans of beer keeps going up. Why am I doing this again?

In fact, I am sure valid research will soon prove hand dryers are actually much worse for the environment; much like oil in the ocean and Pitbull on the radio. So let this be the genesis of the argument.

Point one; they just don’t work. This fact is evidenced by the thousands of public restrooms I’ve urinated in and the hundreds of times I’ve washed my hands. I don’t think I’ve ever come across a machine with a powerful enough ‘blow’ (for lack of a better term) to sufficiently dry my hands. It’s been my experience that most machines are the equivalent of having a child blow; which is something Jared Fogle can identify with.

"Anyone want to get in my pants? Anyone? Plenty of room."

I will further bolster point one by pointing out the resulting behavior that only serves to confirm the fact even more. Fellas, we see/do this all the time. (And I’m pretty sure you girls do it too, you’re always sneaky.) We wash our hands, then rub them under the dryer. After a few seconds, it’s painfully clear that if we want our hands to actually be dry, we’d be better off waving them up and down like we’re landing a plane. Eventually, we give up, and wipe our hands on our pants. Yup, ladies, we do that all the time. Hell, you probably do, too, you’re just more sneaky about it.

Point two; they are not more “sanitary” than paper towels. This makes no sense to me. How is it more sanitary when the dryers just blow the germs all over the place? Yea, what did you think, the germs just magically disappear like greenhouse gasses? When you use the dryer, you’re essentially using a machine to sneeze all your disgusting germs all over the place. How is that more sanitary? I am pretty sure there is no more bacteria encrusted spot than the area immediately beneath the dryer in any public restroom.

Chloe was never much good at blow jobs...
(Alternate caption: I am sure this is Rule 34 for some of you sickos.)

All those germs build colonies in the dark recesses of the restroom. Beneath the sink. In between the grout. On the top ledge of the mirror. It’s a miracle we’re not all sicker, really. Common sense tells you you would want to capture the bacteria in one place and be done with it. Not splatter it throughout the Burger King restroom, you hag.

You don't wanna know what I'm doing with my other hand.

Don’t believe Dr. Theory? Fine, here is proof that jet hand dryers are actually worse than using paper towels.

With paper towels, you can physically wipe the icky stuff off onto the paper, and throw the whole germ circus out. The germs die a pleasant death in the trash. End of story. The Plague is thwarted. We all get to watch the next season of Daredevil.

Point three; those dryers use energy. Nowadays, some decent places have a magical paper towel dispenser where all you have to do is Jedi your hand in front and you receive the paper towels you are looking for. Because electric hand dryers are so inefficient, it takes far more energy to get your fingers just ‘mildly damp.’ Hell, those things would go on all day if you just kept your hands under the nozzle. Sure, some of the more uppity restrooms will provide you with a sign and a few statistics about how much energy the dryers save, but that is just about as effective as the “all employees must wash hands” sign. Go do the math you see, it simply doesn’t add up.

Even if you actually have to touch a bar or lever to manually progress the paper towels out, it wastes no energy and you can still wipe off any remaining germs or bacteria. So, if you use the blower, you hate the Earth no matter how many goddmaned Priuses you drive.

My gas is gluten free and my playlist is full of bands that never even got together.

Anyway, aren’t Kindles and Google books drastically reducing the need for sheets of paper? Why can’t we trade of that loss with paper towels so everyone doesn’t get sick?

Now that I have finished this common sense piece for the betterment of America, I'm gonna go drain the dragon and wash my hands with soap for 20 full seconds and use a GD towel like a GD American.

As always, thanks for reading.

Especially you, Stuart.

DVD Bonus Content-Extra Commentary

Truth be told, this post had been sitting in my computer since last August. It was originally meant for a writing gig I had at the time, but I never finished it. Now with all this controversy over transgender bathroom use, I thought it would be a good time to dust it off, update some of the pop culture references (there was actually an Ashley Madison reference, since this was written right around the time of their data breach.) and finally share it with the world. And now I think the world is a better place for it.

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.

The Assholes That Don't Want Me To Be Healthy

Every Saturday and Sunday morning, it’s the same thing. Wake up in bed (if I’m lucky) and try to fill in the blank space from, “Well, Ok, I wasn’t planning on drinking tonight, but since we’re here, I’ll have ONE beer” to waking up. I collect myself and decide in order to tip the karma scale of health back to ‘non-toxic’, I’ll drag my ass to the gym. Time to pay the piper. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.

The only reason I am using this picture is because I have learned that Facebook will only use the first image I post in the link.

Fresh with a high from working out, I will drive to the local produce store to buy fruits and veggies for the week. And, without fail, every time I go there on a Saturday or Sunday, I always find myself asking the question, “Why is this place always so GD crowded on the weekends? It’s a fucking zoo here."

"Jesus Christ, all I want is 5 pounds of yams!"

I spend the next 25 minutes standing in two lines; one for fruit and one for veggies. Helplessly, hopelessly standing in line, I swear, they can grow new tomatoes in the time it takes me to secure my produce.

OK, so it is partially my fault for going on the weekends, when every other nudnik goes. However, seeing the ineptitude of all the assholes in front of me never fails to amaze me -in a bad way. It’s just assholes. Assholes all around me. (BTW, I am seriously considering changing from Kevolution Theory to Assholes All Around Me, since it seems I bitch about that a lot.) So let me tell you about these assholes at the produce store.

First off, it’s just the volume of people in front of me. Don’t these people have some place better to go on a weekend morning than the fruit store? Maybe some coffee and a Danish? Maybe a hike? And they’re not assholes just because they are in front of me. They are assholes because of their behavior.

Here’s how a sane, rational, though slightly ripe, individual would spend his time in line. “Hmm, OK, let’s see, “ I think to myself “We need bananas. Apples, too, especially with some peanut butter. Kiwi is cheap, so I’ll grab a bag of those. All right, some blueberries, that’ll do.” As I get closer to the counter, I grab a bag of apples and a bag of kiwi. I silently curse, because I always for get to bring cloth bag to put everything in. You know what? Don’t’ judge. I don’t have kids, so I’m saving generations of wear and tear on mother Earth. So I can take the occasional gotdamn plastic bag and not feel guilty about it.

Also, I am multi-tasking. I am adding up everything. Then I go into my wallet so I am prepared to pay. When I make it to the counter, I tell them everything I need in one shot. How easy, polite and sensible, right? Apparently, I am the only one that has mastered these simple practices that speed the line along for everyone.

"Eating salad makes me laugh!"

Time and time again, I see asshole after asshole finally get to the counter and act like all this fruit in front of them is a surprise. “Um……OK……I’ll take some……bananas…..” The poor amigo behind the counter turns around, walks 2 feet, grabs the bag of nanners and puts them on the counter. Clueless asshole continues, “OK…um….let me have the…..apples. The gala apples. NO. No, the delicious apples.” Poor amigo walks 3 feet, grabs the apple bag (which I am pretty sure is slang for testicles) and puts it on the counter. This cycle of wasting everyone’s time continues 4 or 5 more times. “Is that all?” the dead in the eyes counter person asks. “Yes” asshole replies, then acts shocked that money has to change hands at this point in the exchange. They then fumble with their wallet/purse.

Really? Really? It’s assholes like you that make eating healthy so damn difficult for the rest of us. Look, for my current job, I spend hours in super markets and mass merchants. Food is always all around me. Cheap, fattening, but so damn good tasting food. The temptation is always there to just grab a big ol’ bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups and devour the whole thing. But, just like everyone else, I struggle with my food choices, and try to eat healthy as much as I can. That’s why I’m at the GD produce store. I’m loading up for the week, so I can eat a bit smarter and healthier. And because, just maybe, I ate an entire bag of Reese’s on the way there.

I'm not much for fruit, but I'll help you clean the plate.

The vegetable line is worse. I often wonder if they called it the vegetable line because that’s what you’re waiting in line to get, of that is the state of the line dwellers. Here, we see the same behavior. People picking their veggies one at a time and not having any money ready. We also see another behavior which drives me nuts. When you walk into the produce store, it’s pretty clear the fruit line is for fruit only. The veggie line is for-wait for it-veggies only. If you’re one of those freaks who is buying flowers, you get your own flower line, hippie. It never fails, there is always some jerkoff who wants to pay for fruit and/or flowers in the veggie line. “Oh, it’s only one thing of strawberries” or “And I just have these rhododendrons” like the rhododendron just jumped into the cart, and, what the hey, I’ll take ‘em anyway.

"Fruit dipped in whipped cream still counts, stud."

Some days, it takes what left of my strength to not slowly walk over to the eggs, open them, take out a few eggs, put the eggs back and karate chop the asshole right in the throat. I hate these entitled assholes who think the rules don’t apply to them. But it always happens.

So here I am on a Friday afternoon. I’m beat from working all day, but the produce store is not too far away. I’ll be smart and hit it in the afternoon. Who the hell could be there in the middle of the day?

Assholes. Assholes all around me. How does this happen? Don’t these people have jobs? Look, I applaud anyone who is trying to eat better. It’s just do you have to be such a pain in the ass about it? The conspiracy theorist in me thinks Monsanto just pays these dipshits to clog up lines in produce stores. I’ve seen people order 6 beers at the bar more efficiently than these jackoffs. Leave it to the alcoholics to have their shit together.

To sum up: I’m glad you’re eating healthy. Just use your head. Already know what you want. Bring your own bags. Have your money ready to go. Fruit in the fruit line, veggies in the veggie line, show a little respect. And, for all of us, don’t be an asshole.