Friday, January 29, 2010
I will root for Zoltan for several reasons. First, he's Romanian (in fact, he's the 3-time Romanian figure skating champion!). Just like Gheorghe Muresan. Second, his coach is named ... wait for it ... you're gonna love this ... Cornel Gheorghe. Another commonality with Gheorghe! Third, he has a cool name. Zoltan. It sounds so out of sight its got the blind people lookin'. Sounds sweet and smooth like custard. Sharp like a razor, steady like a train. Like a man who knows where to get good gyulai - and how to give it. Like a man who can drink a case of Ursus without having to break the seal. Hirsute in places where other men are hairless. A man that all others envy. Fourth, he skates to funky music. He's soul on ice. Check it:
It seems like he falls down a lot so clearly he can take tons of pain. Tough as nails. If you fast forward to the 5:50 mark you'll see he's got a great poker face. Chicks clearly dig this man.
Don't be surprised if you're standing around the K-cup machine at work and you overhear a bunch of young ladies gasping that "Zoltan is soooo sexy!" Normally they'd be talking about me, but during this twenty-first Winter Olympiad, they just might be talking about Zoltan Kelemen. Be ready for it.
- "it all runs together" french horn
- www.jerryandgeoff.com pictures
- super scintillating sensational
- have you heard of the lonesome looser meaning
- coen brothers reference in superbad
- "village people cloning step children"
- axel rose tent stage cocaine
- "this is the strangest dinner invite ever"
- john staluppi biography
- coors light cakes
- nkotb5 license plate
- mike love hated pet sounds
- free gilbert
- General Mills' All-Star baseball (starring Trix Rabbit and his friends playing baseball against Major League teams and stars)
- you guys playing cards
- how tall is dru joyce iii
- zodiac mindwarp
- 'brett favre hemorrhoids'
- 2 flights jimmy the greek was going to take that crashed
- bangkok whores blogspot.com
- cameltoe in mitch gaylords infomercial
- cousins fucking cousins
- doing pushups and drinking beer
- major league entertainment double homicide blogspot
- mike frensley's new album released in december 2009
- paste magazine we have heard the future of rock and its named 7 mary 3
- richmond squirrels hiree
- tattoos + tequila worms
- which college is better known outside of virginia william and mary or uva
- wnba ""butt slapping""
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Ski Jumping is absurd on the face of it, and the U.S. has no real chance. But we're nothing if not thorough, and it is nordic, so we'll include it for the sake of completeness. Anders Johnson, who recovered from a major knee injury to qualify for the Games, will probably receive the Up Close and Personal treatment. So he's got that going for him. Nick 'Zander' Alexander (I don't make up the nicknames, I just point them out and let you mock them) is likely the U.S.' best medal hope. I wouldn't bet the kids' college funds on it.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
My initial reaction to the Chan Gailey hiring was "I want to die." Perhaps I over-reacted. Scott Pitoniak wrote about Gailey at Two Bills Drive. His notes on Gailey make me optimistic about the Bills' 2010 season:
◦He has NFL head coaching experience, having guided two so-so Dallas Cowboys teams to an 18-16 record and two playoff appearances in the late 1990s;
◦He is regarded as an innovative thinker whose work as an offensive coordinator with the Steelers, Dolphins, Chiefs and Cowboys was lauded by his players and peers;
◦He comes to Buffalo on the recommendation of Cowher, who reportedly was going to bring Gailey along as his assistant head coach/offensive coordinator when he returns to the NFL sidelines;
◦He won’t be queasy about having to work with mediocre quarterbacks such as Ryan Fitzpatrick and Brian Brohm (I left Trent Edwards off this list because I believe he’s a goner). After all, Gailey was able to make it to four Super Bowls and 11 playoffs in 15 NFL seasons with the likes of Mike Tomczak, Kordell Stewart and Jay Fiedler.
Then I decided to do my own research. According to Gailey's old Chiefs bio page, he was an offensive coordinator or head coach for 10 NFL seasons. Here's how his offenses ranked:
In general, his teams have above average offenses. But his best seasons came while working with Elway, Bettis, Aikman, Emmitt, and Irvin. Things weren't as rosy with Fiedler, Thigpen, Cassel, Lamar Smith, and Oronde Gadsden.
The Bills go into 2010 with Trent Edwards and/or Ryan Fitzpatrick at QB, TO and Lee Evans at WR, and Marshawn Lynch and Fred Jackson at RB. They're closer to latter list of scrubs than the former list of Hall of Famers,but I like to think they aren't quite as bad as the scrub list.
So I have hope that the offense will be better than it was in 2009, when it ranked 28th in points and 30th in yards. Or that it simply won't be as putrid as it's been since Jim Kelly retired (notwithstanding one good year from Doug Flutie and 8 good games from Drew Bledsoe).
This does nothing to address a defense which would have been dead last against the run, but for the Colts' decision to roll over in week 17. Of course, this also means that the run defense can't be any worse than it was last year.
Gailey's Georgia Tech teams were 7-6, 7-6, 7-5, 7-5, 9-5, and 7-6 from 2002 to 2007for a 57% winning percentage. He didn't set the college ranks on fire, but he never had a losing record. It would be nice if the Bills win 57% (i.e., 9) of their games next year. Their best record since 2000 was 9-7 in 2004; it won't take much to make me feel better about this team than I did this year.
I'm going to be optimistic about next season and take a "glass is half full" approach. Hopefully my Bills stein is half full of Delirium Tremens, or even Miller High Life, as opposed to the past decade's overflowingly full vats of urine. I'll do anything for an MF Doom segue.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
The nuances of my relationship with the New York Jets are well-documented here. The team has not won a title in the 30 years I've watched them, although they have, for the most part, been average. Despite the perpetual negativity pervading the psyches of the fan-base (somehow achieving misery synergy with overlapping Mets fans), the team has offered enough joyful moments to keep me coming back. The oddest trait about the franchise is its up-and-down nature every year. In the 1980's, before salary caps and free agency churned rosters on an annual basis, franchises rode waves of success that surged and crested before eventually breaking. The Dolphins, Chargers and Raiders all had lengthy runs in the AFC, while the 49ers, Cowboys and Redskin battled in the NFC, giving way to the Bears and Giants in the latter half of the decade. This trend continued for most of the 1990's. But in the face of the arc-like fortunes of these franchises, the Jets' fortunes bobbed like a buoy. Sure, there have been poor draft picks, booger-picking coaches, train wrecks and tragedy. But there have also been surprising playoff appearances and overachieving fan favorites. Inconsistency is the hallmark of Gang Green. It is maddening and uplifting at the same time, but it always causes me to look cautiously toward the future, when anything can happen.
Let's briefly review the team's past two appearances in the AFC Championship:
1/23/83: Jets lose 14-0 to Dolphins in Orange Bowl monsoon
Don Shula orders the tarp to stay off the field the night before, turning it into a slow, muddy slog that mitigates the Jets' speed advantage. Mark Gastineau repeatedly kicks a fumbled ball off a sack while trying to pick it up and run, allowing the Dolphins to get the ball back. Richard Todd throws five interceptions (three to A.J. Duhe, including one he returned for a touchdown in the fourth quarter to seal the victory). The game was as strange as the strike-shortened season. For those too young to remember, the strike (which I remember vividly because of this depressing SI cover) cut the regular season to 9 games. To come up with playoff teams, the league scrapped the division standings and ranked teams in each conference, lining up the best 8 in each conference to go at it. No wild-cards and no byes. This was very perplexing to me as a third-grader. I had just figured out how the league worked after thoroughly enjoying the epic playoff battles leading to Super Bowl XVI (Winslow beating the Dolphins, Montana to Clark), and they go and change the rules on me. Stupid strike.
1/17/99 - Jets get pummeled by Broncos 23-10
The game wasn't as close as the score indicated. Elway, TD and crew won to get back to the Super Bowl and repeat as champions over the whore-loving Atlanta Falcons. The Jets were riding the Parcells-driven Vinny train and over-achieved a bit. The outcome was neither surprising nor saddening. Not much else to say here. Those Broncos teams were awesome and mowed down just about everybody, including the knees of any defensive player lined up in front of the Broncos' dirty offensive line.
1/24/10 - ???
Let's focus on the big picture - the Jets face an oft-choking juggernaut and have some clear advantages with their running game and defense. The Revis factor is overblown because the Colts' passing attack is multi-faceted. On the flip side, the Colts' revenge factor is underblown. (Not a real word, but a nice transition from the prior sentence. And an apt reference to my genitals in college.) The Jets robbed the Colts of a perfect record and some dignity last month, and Peyton was seething on the sidelines after he got pulled. He'll want to shut up Rex Ryan in the worst way. This makes me a bit anxious. As a result, I will be mildly depressed, but not surprised, if the Jets lose.
This year's Jets team has achieved the one basic task you hope for from your NFL team every year - they raised my ceiling of expectations for the team. The Cardinals and Giants did the same thing successfully in the last two post-seasons. Let's hope they can keep pushing that ceiling, with Rex Ryan stepping in for Eric Stoltz, Mark Sanchez in for Cher, Fireman Ed as Sam Elliott and Norv Turner as the principal who insists Rocky Dennis needs to be in Special Ed. And Vernon Gholston as the blind character Laura Dern plays who doesn't understand basic concepts the rest of the world does.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A new professional basketball league called the All-American Basketball Alliance (AABA) sent out a press release on Sunday saying that it intends to start its inaugural season in June, with teams in 12 U.S. cities. However, the AABA is different from other sports leagues because only players who are “natural born United States citizens with both parents of Caucasian race are eligible to play in the league.” AABA commissioner Don “Moose” Lewis insists that he’s not racist, but he just wants to get away from the “street-ball” played by “people of color” and back to “fundamental basketball.” Lewis cited the recent incidents of bad behavior by NBA players, implying that such actions would never happen with white players:
“There’s nothing hatred about what we’re doing,” he said. “I don’t hate anyone of color. But people of white, American-born citizens are in the minority now. Here’s a league for white players to play fundamental basketball, which they like.” [...]
He pointed out recent incidents in the NBA, including Gilbert Arenas’ indefinite suspension after bringing guns into the Washington Wizards locker room, as examples of fans’ dissatisfaction with the way current professional
sports are run.
“Would you want to go to the game and worry about a player flipping you off or attacking you in the stands or grabbing their crotch?” he said. “That’s the culture today, and in a free country we should have the right to move ourselves in a better direction.”
Setting aside the obvious, oblivious, asinine side of this endeavor for just a moment, let's play this out a bit. What about the Asians? They like fundamental basketball even more than white people do. And who is more fundamentalist than radical Muslims? Why can't they get a run? I don't know, but I'm starting think that ol' Moose Lewis might be a little bit racist.
A couple of warnings:
1) Most people will be able to relate to the song, but devout Muslims and Mormons may not get it.
2) The song is far more realistic than the film The Hangover. Who could learn to count cards after a night of heavy drinking?
I am proud to say that this may be the most prolific two weeks in Greasetruck history. And for those of you wondering . . . yes, there is a monologue (which I have transcribed below as a special bonus. Also, the song is two and a half minutes long, so it's nowhere near the commitment of listening to yesterday's podcast).
Hungover dad . . . feeling bad . . .
Regretting the number of drinks he had
on his night out with the boys.
Now he's on the floor assembling toys . . .
But the batteries don't fit.
And it smells like somebody took a shit.
Changing this diaper is gonna make him puke.
It's time to play Star Wars-- who's gonna be Luke?
He should have stopped after two--
after two he was feeling good.
Why'd he have to go and have six more?
He couldn't fit the key in the door.
And now his wife is shopping with all her friends,
going to the outlets to exact revenge.
There was no good reason to do those shots . . .
other than he wanted to drink a lot.
And his stomach is feeling weird,
he's got to keep the toilet near.
His head is feeling worse and worse
he's drinking lots of coffee to stay alert.
Because Ethan's licking an extension cord,
and Emily's naked cause she says she's bored.
The twins are playing catch with a dead gold fish,
and the butter is missing from the butter dish.
But the joy he got, the joy he got, the joy he got is worth a lot.
The joy he got, the joy he got, the joy he got is worth a lot.
When you are old and feeling young, it's hard to stop
when the feeling comes.
When you are old and feeling young, it's easy to be a little dumb.
But now he's got to focus until the day is done:
twelve hours more till bedtime comes.
Playing board games, making lunch
this is nothing like the Brady Bunch
He had his fun, now he'll pay.
He won't ever drink again
until next Friday.
The typical hangover consists of 14 stages:
1. When you awake and declare "I don't feel bad at all." This is because you are still drunk.
2. Nausea and dizziness.
3. I'm so thirsty, but I can't convince my legs to take me to get a glass of water.
4. Headache due to dehydration.
5. Partial recovery due to coffee.
6. The shakes and the runs. Also due to coffee.
7. Recovered memories from the night before. These are best suppressed quickly.
8. Swearing you'll never drink again. Right.
9. The dummies: you can't remember names, dates, where you put your car, etc.
10. Eating greasy food to make your stomach feel better. This is almost as stupid as the amount you drank last night.
11. You attempt to nap but can't because of all the greasy food you ate.
12. Swearing you'll never drink X again, X being the particular alcoholic beverage that caused the hangover, as in I'll never do Car Bombs again. Right.
14. Wondering if one beer might make you feel better, the hair of the dog. Repeat until cirrhosis.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The evolution of Gheorghe: The Blog from small-time internet magazine to super-niche blog was fairly well preordained. We had the time, the motive, and the opportunity. Also, the built in audience of dozens. We didn't have much to say, but that's where the super-niche part comes in.
Time, motive, and opportunity conspired again this week with the latest in online technologies in a confluence that may well reshape the world as we know it. Or at least give you 28 minutes and 29 seconds of moderate amusement.
Ladies and gentlemen, we give you the very first edition of Gheorghe: The Podcast. In this episode, Teejay, Mark, Whitney, and I overcome technical difficulties and ineptitude to talk over one another, tell inside jokes, forget to explain what G:TB is, use one of George Carlin's 7 words (though not the one you might think), and touch on Eddie Money, basketball, M.A.S.K., and the dangers of carbonation. It's probably SFW, unless you don't want the people you work with to think you're a moron.
We have our own version of StatBoy at work, too. Here's what you wanted to know:
And the rules we violated almost systematically are here.
The city of San Diego, with its long-standing financial problems, and the state of California, with well-documented budget problems of its own, would benefit if its denizens pursued endeavors that aimed to benefit society a bit more. Not that I have an issue with styrofoam-sculpted toilets and airplanes.
(Thanks to the Jets Blog for the image. And thanks to this jackass for reminding me what an idiot is. )
Monday, January 18, 2010
W&M heads to Richmond on Wednesday to face a resurgent VCU (13-4, 4-3) squad. The Rams have won three straight, all by 13-point margins, after opening the CAA schedule with three losses in four games. The Tribe rallied from a 15-point second-half deficit to beat Shaka Smart's club in both schools' conference opener, serving notice that W&M's early-season success might be more than smoke and mirrors.
Defending conference champion VCU finds itself a full two games behind the four-way logjam atop the league, but might be playing better than anyone else right now. Larry Sanders and his Gheorghe-esque wingspan leads the Rams with 15.3 points and 8.1 boards a game. Sanders, who may well be VCU's second NBA first-rounder in as many years, looked dominant against Hofstra last week, tallying 31 points. After JMU's Denzel Bowles went 26/13 on the Tribe on Thursday, Sanders must be salivating. Uber-scrapper Joey Rodriguez and Bradford Burgess both get 10+ ppg for the Rams, with Rodriguez leading the entire conference in both assists and steals.
As an aside, how good is the race for the CAA's top spot right now? W&M, Northeastern, Old Dominion, and George Mason are all 6-1 in league play. Conference USA has four teams at 3-0 or 4-0 and the NEC has a trio of 5-1 teams and two more at 4-2. But we're not interested in all that. Our unbiased, completely scientific poll indicates that the Colonial is the nation's most competitive conference.
No rest for the Tribe after a matchup with the highly-motivated Rams, as one of the conference's co-leaders comes to Williamsburg on Saturday. Old Dominion (14-5, 6-1) started slowly, losing to Missouri, Mississippi State, Richmond, and Dayton before turning things around with an impressive win at Georgetown. The enigmatic Gerald Lee paces the Monarchs with 14+ ppg, but ODU wins with physical, relentless defense. The matchup between the Tribe's conference-best offense (in terms of efficiency, field goal percentage, and three-point percentage) and ODU's league-leading defense (allowing only 55.8 ppg) will tell the story.
David Schneider continues to pace the Wrens in nearly every aspect of the game. He's the only player in the conference to post top-10 marks in scoring (17.5 ppg), rebounding (6.2 rpg) and steals (1.5 spg). He's starting to garner POY buzz, a noise so unfamiliar in Williamsburg that AD Terry Driscoll was forced to call the Linguistics department for assistance. Sophomore Quinn McDowell gets 15.4 ppg on 51.8% shooting (40.8% from deep). The key this week may well be senior Danny Sumner, the Wrens' third-leading scorer (10.2 ppg) with an alarming predilection for disappearing. If the kid who posted a 0-1, 0 point, 5-rebound, 29-minute effort against Hofstra shows up against VCU and ODU, it could be a tough week. If the Sumner that averaged 16.5 points, 5 boards, and 2 blocks against ACC competition comes to play, I like the Tribe's chances.
Still crossing fingers, almost ready to believe. Realistically, a split would be a very acceptable result this week for the Wrens.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
The drinking game is easy. Every time you hear a player, coach, announcer or anybody else associated with the contest you're viewing talk about the need for people to "step their game up", "step up" or any iteration of that phrase....go ahead and drink. Not coincidentally, I'm going to get you started in grand fashion right now.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The dream I am going to give up on is my dream to write a novel. I've written outlines, scenes, loads of dialogue, descriptions, anecdotes, but nothing even close to resembling a chapter. I suppose the closest I got was when Whitney and I pumped out three mediocre screenplays, but a screenplay is not a novel. A screenplay has a set format, and the writing is closer to journalism than art.
I actually gave up on this dream several months ago, but I decided to address my lack of fictional productivity in the form of a song. A song about how I needed to get to work on my novel but never would. Why not? Why won't I ever write a masterpiece of fiction? Because I can't type. Even writing a blog post this long is stretching the limits of my pecking ability (although seeing Slovenian super-brain Slavoj Zizek's one fingered typing style made me realize that where there is a will there's a way). There is also the fact that I don't have much insight or perspective on how other people's brain's work, but that hasn't stopped many prolific novelists from churning out loads of fiction.
So in the middle of recording this song about procrastination (which I've posted today!) my computer broke. Because of this, the song took several months to record. The irony is not lost on me. In the midst of fixing the computer, I decided that this electronic recording project was insane, time consuming, impossible, for computer geeks, and overly frustrating. But all that changed when I realized I wasn't actually insane. It wasn't my IRQ line or some sort of Vista based glitch (though people would have me believe otherwise) and the software wasn't beyond me, it was just that my video card was broken.
In the months it took to diagnose this rather simple hardware failure-- and again, the irony is not lost on me-- I came up with a great idea for a novel. This was the novel I would actually write . . . it would be dark, satirical, and picaresque, so I wouldn't have to worry much about a plot. The premise was a simple reversal of an archetype; instead of the typical apocalyptic story, such as The Road or I am Legend or Mad Max or Escape from New York, where the lone heroic man, in a terrible world stricken by disaster, must carve out both a new life and a new persona, one rougher and stronger and wilder than what he once was when he was civilized.
Instead of that fantasy, this would be a story of a henpecked husband and his wife and mother-in-law and his three manipulative daughters and how they ALL survive the apocalyptic event, and so our lone hero, instead of being freed of civilization, which is the man's dream, to wander the earth with a cool car like Mad Max and cool sunglasses like Kurt Russell, instead he has to perform the same marital and filial and social duties as usual, but in the apocalypse. I planned on calling it The Rut. It would make for lots of good situation comedy and satire in a dark setting. I bought The Stand and The World Without Us, and I was all ready to move into my next stage of novelistic procrastination, which is basically planning to read, but not reading a bunch of books that vaguely have to do with the theme of the novel. And once again, I forgot the main reason I will never write a novel. I can't type! Not only can't I do it, but I hate and despise it. And-- although I try not to be homophobic-- I find typing kind of feminine. If I ever do get in the groove on the keyboard, I feel like I need to take a break to do some push-ups and then have a beer. In fact, I'm doing push-ups and drinking beer right now.
And so I finally think I have learned my lesson. Whenever I have an idea for a novel, I'm going to take myself less seriously, and I'm going to post my idea on Gheorghe. For anyone to use. Perhaps Whitney will type it up in a few minutes as a seventeen page post. And I am going to concentrate on making bad music on my computer, which is one of my dreams, and one I've been quite successful at. So, without further typing, here is the new Greasetruck song, entitled: "My Novel." It is a return to form: I barely sing, I abuse the pitch shifter, there's lots of weird sounds floating around (some with purpose and some accidental) and there is a monologue, which I was trying to get away from, but since Whitney loves them, and since I'm never going to write a novel, there's got to be some way for me to present my prose other than this blog.
It's time, I’ve got to write my novel
Sit down and get it done soon.
That’s right, I've got to start typing.
Sequester myself in a little room--
cause we’re gonna die soon
But I got so much to do--
I need to type up chapter two.
And I never wrote chapter one,
I'll do that one when I’m done.
But you’ve got to hear my plot.
Plot is the thing I’ve got.
There’s a lady on the run,
And there’s a man with a gun,
And when it gets a little slow
Then I’ve got a UFO.
I've got to sit down and type my story
it’s the story of . . . the story of life--
it’s the story of life in the future,
everybody’s got an android wife.
But you've got to hear my plot, plot is what I got.
Now creature from outer space joins in on the chase,
and when it's all said and done
you'll never guess who shoots the gun.
I can’t say the final twist . . . okay, if you insist:
the lady wakes up from a dream, nothing is as it seems,
but who’s beside her in her bed?
That space creature from her head.
What's the moral of my tale? Love will prevail.
I've got to write a song about writing my novel.
Yeah, I've got to sing that song soon.
Got to sing that song about writing my novel.
Yeah, I've got to get it sung soon.
You've got to hear my song,
it's only two minutes long.
Unless i sing some more,
then I could make it four.
It's got a meta plot,
and so I better stop.
People hate a meta plot.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
"We shall overcome.” – Joan Baez
Amidst the topsy turvy world of fashion (one in which, I might add, I ride the crest of every wave), trends come and go as quickly as big Gheorghe heads to and fro the disabled list. One trend, unfortunately, has risen from a blip on our fashion radar screen to a permanent blemish in clothing stores. Call them stretch pants, spandex, lycra, whatever you wish, but remember their potential for devestation.
Lycraholism, defined in Webster’s as the physical and mental addiction to stretch pants, received some notoriety in the early 1980’s, after Olivia Newton-John’s avant garde video “Let’s Get Physical” began to shed light on the use and abuse of tight-fitting athletic gear. However, athletic clothing manufacturers have successfully squelched all recent medical research regarding the phenomenon, as they heartlessly bilk the consuming public and hook them on lycra.
Risking life and limb, I, ace investigative reporter Slim Tuffjam, am passing along an open letter to the fitness industry in an effort to curtail the widespread abuse of lycra. I strongly encourage all who read this to copy my letter and mail it to the manager of your local health club, should that club encourage lycraholism in any form. Congressional measures are currently pending to offically classify health clubs as “Lycraholism-Safe” facilities, in much the same way cans of tuna are deemed as not hazardous to dolphins.
As a contented recipient of the services provided by your fitness facilities, it is with a great deal of dismay that I write this letter. The purpose of my correspondence is to notify you that I will accept the upcoming termination of my membership and look to join a different health club in the area. Having been a member of the club for less than one year, I am well aware that my departure will not cause great emotional distress upon employees or evoke tears from fellow fitness-conscious members.
I would like to point out that my decision to seek another fitness facility has nothing to do with the facility itself or the friendly staff that has gone out of their way to provide me with every possible amenity. Living a short drive away from the gym, I have found it extremely convenient to stop by after work and on weekends to get a good workout. However, any physical satisfaction that I have obtained through working out has been vastly overshadowed by the mental anguish inflicted upon me by the morally reprehensible actions of several people who also work out there.
To ease any fears that might be entering you train of thought, I have not been robbed, beaten up, or harassed, nor have I been the victim of any other type of physical wrongdoing at the hands of these hooligans. Stated bluntly, my complaint is that for as long as I have been attending the gym, I have been an unwilling eyewitness to the quasi-exhibitionist tendencies of guys who see nothing wrong with wearing spandex shorts so tight that I end up knowing far more than I ever should about the composition of their genitalia. When I fail to give 100% attention to the task of staring at the floor, I invariably find myself with a grade-A crotch shot of someone’s unit. The effects are immediate and horrific. My stomach becomes queasy. Waves of nausea cause my body to shudder uncontrollably. Cold sweat pours out all over my body as if a faucet was turned on. An immediate urge arises within me to pummel this person with the nearest blunt metal object, which only slowly subsides as I force myself to reminisce upon unconstrictive clothing trends I can fondly remember from my youth.
I now ask myself (and you also): Are these gentlemen stoked that I have a first-row view of their privates? Are they homosexuals? Am I a homophobe? Am I the one who is out-of-touch by not wearing spandex? Should I slip a dollar in their shorts? Far be it from me to proclaim myself Sheriff of the Fashion Police, but I think I have more than a vague idea of what is appropriate attire in a health club. In my book, any item of clothing that gives a clear, silhouetted view of one’s penis gets a thumb down. To expound matters, it is also common for these characters to tuck in their tee shirts while wearing spandex. What do you say to someone who willfully goes the extra step to ensure an unobstructed shot of their goods? “Nice piece, I can see why you show it off.” Or maybe something like: “Wow! Will weightlifting do that to me?”
At this juncture, I hope you get a feel for the mental and physical rigors I endure every time I head to the gym. I pray to Saint Mary before I leave my apartment each day, begging her to stop this senseless display of meat. But I’m not Catholic, so she ignores me. I have thought of buying blinders to obstruct my view, but they are just not practical for working out. I must do something though to stop my recurring nightmares. In this dream, I’m working out peacefully and alone in the weight room, but when I look in the mirror, I see I’m wearing spandex with my tee shirt tucked in. I immediately run in the bathroom to rip them off, but there is another pair underneath! And then another, and then another… My fruitless efforts to change clothes repeat themselves until my own screams of horror awake me. I lay awake in a frenzied delirium many a night, my heart beating like I’ve been a week-long coke binge, fleeting visions of a dream gone awry gallivanting through my head. I simply lie there, in a puddle of my own sweat, wanting to run out of my bedroom as quickly as possible, away from civilization as I know it, to a secluded spot in a desolate forest where I can lay quietly in a fetal position, wipe tears from my cheeks, and softly call out to the wind: “Mommy.”
I now find it difficult to accomplish the everyday tasks I’ve been accustomed to handling. I loll around on the job. My commute to work is spent in a dazed stupor as I salvage my little strength to keep myself from falling asleep on the subway, lest I scream out in front of fifty strangers in a dream-induced rage: “Be gone, demon stretch pants!” If I do not leave your facilities soon, I fear you will read about me hanging from a rafter somewhere, my stiff body suspended from a noose.
In closing, I realize I would be a liar by saying that I am also offended by women in spandex. I guess I am simply a slightly homophobic man who seeks a fitness facility that eschews genital displays. If I wished to endeavor in these types of voyeuristic activities, I would have joined a Turkish spa. I welcome any feedback you might have as to how a facility such as yours could alter this traumatizing state of affairs.