You know your workout isn’t off to a great start when your husband challenges you to do a chin up and you immediately wonder, “Which chin?”
Hey, it’s a serious question. Do I need to pull all of my body weight up towards a metal rod of random height and merely touch the tip of my chin to the bar – or do I have to haul my waddle up there too and dangle it over the other side? I bet you George Lucas wonders the same thing all the time. Do I stuff all of my waddle under my shirt collar or do I allow it to drape over like Miss Snarky Pants’ muffin top?
Oh yeah? Well, the dialogue in Star Wars sucks. Hear that, fat man!
In my case, the issue was moot because I can’t do a single chin up. Nor could my hubby. In my defense, after six weeks of working out, Hubby is only up to four. Not four reps of ten, but four chin ups. Of course, he’s only 140 pounds soaking wet, so he doesn’t have the same, erm, challenges that I have. I’m not just pulling myself up; I’ve got a monkey on my back. Make that a full-grown gorilla. With hypothyroidism and a penchant for eating anvils.
In practical terms, imagine that you’re a person of average weight for your height, unless you already are – in which case, imagine me glaring at you because you insist upon mocking me with your perfectly fit body. However, despite the fact that you are constantly rubbing your toned abs in my face like I’m a puppy that’s pooed on the carpet, I’m still a thoughtful friend. I’ve bought you a lovely, sturdy belt for your birthday – and then, because making a point is ultimately much more important to me than your friendship, I’ve looped that belt through the handles of six, one gallon cans of paint. Though you wish I’d given you a book or maybe some earrings, you still fasten the 60+ pound belt around your waist. And when I ask you to go ahead and do a chin up, you tell me to fuck off.
“Do you realize that I’m wearing enough Sherman Williams to paint the White House?” you ask. “Inside and out?” Of course I do; welcome to my life.
While researching the elusive chin up, I came across an article on stronglifts.com which insists that “[y]our body-weight is not the problem. Strength is. If you want to get stronger at Pull-ups & Chin-ups, do them more.” Let’s see now…if I do 5 times the chin ups I’m doing now, I’ll have done, erm, zero. Great advice, douchebag.
I was surprised to discover that even my slimmer and testosterone-infused friends are similarly challenged. My friend, Evan, recently lamented to me that he can’t complete a single chin up – or pull up, depending upon your definition – unaided. The worst part is that he has to rely on the “assisted pull up machine” in the gym to train so that he can eventually accomplish this tremendous feat of strength. “As soon as you climb onto the assisted pull up machine, you’ve just announced to everyone in the gym that
you are a pussy you can’t do a chin up on your own,” he complained. “Having the muscleheads know this is worse than not being able to do a damn chin up in the first place.”
This reminded me of when I used to work for a pharmaceutical company that formulated a little, blue pill which lifted the, erm, heads of many a man. While I was practically assaulted in the waiting rooms of each and every doctor’s office I visited by decrepit, old codgers just dying to shoot their wad, not one of them accepted my offer of a pen or notepad with the pill’s name on it. No, they wanted samples – a request that only their doctor could fulfill – and lots of ’em. Prescriptions were useless as they announced to everyone working in the pharmacy that Flopsy was not the name of a member of your four-legged family, but the pet name for your, erm, member.
Still, I’m perplexed by why this seemingly simple exercise is so damned difficult. By the age of six, I could complete hundreds of one-armed chin ups in a row, hang upside down from the monkey bars until all of my blood pooled in my brain, and contort myself in such a way that I once crammed my entire body into a pillowcase. Why can’t adults do something that kids can do so effortlessly?
I suspect the answer lies in knowledge. As children, we don’t know that we can’t do things, so we just do them. Second graders don’t know the first thing about their Latissimus Dorsi…and, frankly, neither did I until I Googled it. Apparently, it’s not the name of the roguishly handsome, but tragic hero in an Italian romance novel as I’d initially believed – and instead are big ol’ muscles in your back that make a pronated (overhand) grip pull up/chin up possible. My problem lies in the fact that I’m aware that muscles are involved in exercise, thereby making chin ups an impossibility for me. Moreover, my back muscles and I aren’t on speaking terms and haven’t been since I allowed numerous cars to plow into mine over the years.
Were I to try a supinated (underhand) grip instead, I could rely more heavily on my biceps – which is kinda like Tony Stark relying on the phrase, “Stop! I’m a rich dude” to halt criminals instead of donning his Iron Man suit and crushing them beneath his metallic red foot. However, my biceps cooperate only when alcohol is involved – and it’s simply too difficult to attempt a chin up with the stem of a wineglass clamped between your teeth.
So for now, I will celebrate the fact that I’ve lost 9 pounds (and have been placed in the Witness Protection Program so that they can’t find me again and re-staple themselves to my ass cheeks) and, thanks to the miracle of technology, I can watch Bravo on every single cardio machine in the gym. As Hubby conquers one more chin up after another, I will have to revel in the knowledge that if he brags about it and pisses me off, I can easily crush the ego out of him by merely sitting on his lap.
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***Photo credits: Chin Up: Menshealth.com George Lucas: Georgelucasneck.tumblr.com White House: WhiteHouse.gov Sixteen Candles Chin Up: Tumblr.com Latissimus Dorsi: Wikipedia.com
Unless you’ve been living in cave in North Korea, you’ve probably heard that
the orange buffoon Donald Trump has a big SECRET about President Obama which he’s planning to unveil this week. During a Monday phone call with Fox and Friends, the Trumpster said, ”It’s going to be announced probably on Wednesday. But I have something very, very big concerning the President of the United States.” When probed for more information, The Donald would only add, “It’s very big. Bigger than anybody would know.”
Having been led down the birther path by this pompous, tanorexic blowhard before, I’m hesitant to give the Trumpomatic a single inch of space on my blog. However, being a humor writer, I can’t ignore a golden opportunity to explore the possibilities. What could this important news be? Hmm. Let’s consider what we know: (a) it’s very, very big; (b) it’s about President Obama; (c) it’s coming from the least credible source since Chicken Little.
Top Ten Possible BIG Secrets About President Obama To Be Revealed By The Dumpster
1. President Obama shaved his fro down a couple inches, effectively reducing his height from 6’3″ to 6’1,” in order to avoid being labeled a “big, angry black man.”
2. President Obama is actually Bill Clinton in black face and, thus, his presidency is invalid as no person may be elected to the office of the President of the United States more than twice as per the 22nd Amendment to the Constitution.
3. President Obama doesn’t meet the “natural born citizen” requirement of the Constitution because he was actually hatched – the offspring of an advanced race of seven foot tall alien bunnies who settled in the United States in the hopes of saving the world from apocalypse under the leadership of President Mittens.
4. President Obama will appear on Celebrity Apprentice if he is not re-elected. Television execs predict that The Dumpster will be fired and the name of the show will be changed to Socialist, Muslim, African, Liberal, Gay-Loving, Fetus-Murdering Apprentice with President Obama at its helm. Democrats and repentant Republicans will tune in in record numbers.
5. President Obama’s nickname in the bedroom is “Big Barry.”
6. The reason no photos exist of the President before the age of 13 is because President Obama used to be a vampire. A complete transfusion of human blood at age 14 reversed his blood-lust symptoms.
7. Bigfoot exists and President Obama is in possession of the only genuine photograph, contained within the president’s Book of Secrets.
8. The paperwork making Hawaii a U.S. territory and, later, the 50th state were all forged; thus, President Obama is not a natural born citizen of the United States.
9. All those emails you’ve been getting from President Obama – he didn’t really send them; his staff of sharp-fanged, winged faeries did.
10. The real reason Mitt Romney has promised to cut funding for PBS is because the part of Big Bird has secretly been played by President Obama since 1972. Yeah, he was only eleven at the time, but he was tall for his age.
What do you think? Please feel free to cast your vote for the most likely
big, fat whopping lie SECRET that the Dumpster will reveal this week – or suggest your own in the Comments section below. Yes, you CAN!
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***Photo credits: Mitt & Trump: Abcnews.go.com Obama’s Afro: Latimesblogs.latimes.com Obama With Bunny Mama: WashingtonPost.com Baby Obama: Telegraph.uk.co Big Bird Obama: Wikipedia
Every once in awhile, Karma smiles down upon you and grants you the opportunity of a lifetime. In my case, her gift was two tickets for a taping of The Daily Show in Tampa, Florida during the Republican National Convention. Now, some of you may be snickering or rolling your eyes because
you’re complete and utter morons I think watching Jon Stewart doing his gig in person can only be surpassed by an event that involves me sipping Moët from the Holy Grail while David Sedaris reads aloud to me and Johnny Depp massages my feet. Sure, I realize his show shoots five days a week for most of the year up in Hell’s Kitchen, so you’re probably thinking that filming The Daily Show isn’t exactly rare like, say, a sober Amanda Bynes or a pale Donatella Versace.
But you would be wrong.
Shooting Comedy Central’s top–rated show in Tampa is extraordinarily unusual. And after Stewart and his team openly lambasted the city in which I reside with embarrassingly accurate observations about the heat and humidity (describing Tampa as the ideal environment for “a struggling strand of streptococcus”), the casual attire of the indigenous population (“the city where flip flops are considered evening wear”), and our fondness of clothing-optional gentlemen’s clubs (“Jon, I’m here in Tampa’s famous strip club district or as they call it here – Tampa.”), it’s unlikely that the program will ever be filmed in the Peninsula of Death again – unless a palmetto bug decides to run for President in 2016.
As with every major event, some self-satisfied schmuck comes along and deigns it his or her distinct honor to decide who were the best dressed, worst dressed, most improved, most likely to, most popular and funniest. In the case of The March on the Republican National Convention (RNC), that self-satisfied schmuck would be moi.
Most Likely To Be Shot By A Vigilante Neighborhood Watch Member
It’s A Good Thing George Zimmerman Can’t Leave Orange County
Most Likely To Have Thought Black Bloc Was A Fashion Trend
“Are We Supposed To Wear The Bandana As A Mask Or As A Scarf? It’s Cuter As A Scarf.”
Most Likely To Think The March Ends At A Shelter
“GOP Farts Need To Give The Homeless Shopping Carts!”
A Humor Blog For Horrible People
That’s my new tagline – and one that will take up residence on my newly-designed website in a month or so after all of my Paltry Meanderings’ readers have caught on. You may have noticed that I’ve got a new name and look. It was time for a change or, as David Bowie would put it, it was time to turn and face the strange.
However, my blog makeover is only one of several metamorphoses I’ve undergone recently. In fact, during my brief August sabbatical:
1) I’ve Become A Vegan:I know…I may as well have just confided to you that I’ve moved to Oregon, stopped shaving my legs, taken to rubbing a chunk of crystal under my arms instead of deodorant, started wearing Birkenstocks, and sold my televisions in order to donate the money to my local farm co-operative. Of course, that’s ridiculous. I don’t even use deodorant. For the record, although I love all critters, I decided to eschew meat and all animal-based products because I had some addiction issues to conquer – namely my lifelong enslavement to one particular substance – not because I wanted to have an excuse for wearing the fugliest shoes ever created. Breaking this dependence was critical to my relationship with my husband, my parents, my friends and my waistline.
They say, Admitting you have a problem is the first step.So here I am to announce to all of you today that I, Miss Snarky Pants, am an addict. I can’t remember not drinking. I suppose whole milk was my gateway drug, but then my mother further mired me in the Swamp of Dependency by introducing me to Nestlé Quik. Within days, I was a chocolate milk junkie. Mom enabled my new addiction by permitting me to slug down a glass every Saturday morning – as long as I woke her first and asked permission. Of course, I scored half pints of the stuff in the school cafeteria; you’d be amazed what you can get in trade for an apple, half a Twinkie and a bathroom stall blow job.
When you have gazillions of dollars and no job, you aren’t “unemployed.” You’re “retired.”
London is an international, financial hub with a port, the first underground rail system and nearly 8 million people. Salt Lake City is dot on a map with a lake, a genealogical library and less than 200,000 people. Don’t get them confused again.
I know the trees in London look like they’re exactly the right height, but don’t say that out loud.
“At the heart of ratcism is the religious assertion that God made a creative mistake when He brought some critters into being.” – Friedrich Otto Hertz’s rat
Most people dislike rats. For some, it’s the misplaced belief that today’s domestic rats are the same critters that spread the Bubonic Plague throughout Europe during the Middle Ages. Of course, this is absurd. Any historian worth his salt – like Mel Gibson, for example – will tell you that there was no Bubonic Plague, just like there was no Holocaust or 1969 moon landing. And even if there was a Plague – and I’m not saying there was – the poor rats were mere pawns manipulated by the true perpetrators: fleas, who used the rats as a form of mass rapid transit with a conveniently-attached dining car.
For others, it’s the fear that rats will chew off their babies faces while they sleep. To those people, I say, “Wipe the friggin’ jelly off your kid’s mouth before putting them to bed.” And why do you have wild rats scurrying through your home in the first place? Have you never heard of Truly Nolan? Could it be that you live in a Hoarders-worthy pigsty and the stacks of newspaper that form the interior walls of your home provide perfect nesting material for vermin? In that case, rats are the least of your worries. Still, others get the willies just looking at a rat’s long, rather scaly tail – and understandable phobia considering how many deaths are caused every year by vicious rat tail thrashings that can leave a person’s skin looking like a slave’s back in Roots.
In first grade, my parents bought me a gerbil. Its name escapes me, but it’s demise will be forever ingrained in my memory as one of the most horrifying moments of my young life. This is what happens when your parents entrust the animal care in your home to a person who will eventually become an infamous cat burglar. As our pet sitter was too occupied with stealing jewels from stately Miami mansions to remember to close the gerbil cage properly, we returned from our vacation to discover Whatever-Its-Name-Was in a bloody, mutilated mess – and our cat, Pumpkin, well fed.
I enjoy reading The Huffington Post. It delivers my news in the crunchy-granola, tree-hugging, Obama-loving, non-homophobic, NPR-listening, organically-grown, Jon Stewart-worshiping, ballet-flat wearing format that makes me feel happy, informed and secure. If The Huff Post editors eat meat, I’m sure they feel guilty about it later. For years now, reading my news online delivered me from the hell that is local, conservative news programming – or worse – vapid, syndicated morning shows, which make me nauseous with their bright, Crest-strip smiles and regular visits from the local zoo. Meet Nagini, the albino python or a hoard of hissing cockroaches. Please – not before I’ve eaten my oatmeal, okay?
But then things changed. AOL came into the picture and acquired The Huff Post. Suddenly Arianna Huffington was in the hot seat on every liberal media program mumbling her way through interviews in a Greek accent thicker than a tub of Chiobani. Despite the fact that AOL is a true
bastard bastion of news organizations, up there with The National Enquirer and US Magazine Time, The Economist and The Atlantic, recent headlines have been less than compelling.
Now I’m not going to blow bullshit dust up your ass; I love my pop culture and I pepper my posts with references to the Kardashian Empire (now which one is Anastasia?) just as often as I defend Obama’s birth certificate or my desire to own Vladimir Putin as a guard dog.
Thomas Edison legendarily tested potential employees by inviting them to dinner. If they sprinkled salt on their food before tasting it, he refused to hire them, viewing their thoughtless salting as a sign that their preconceived mindset would prevent them from analyzing a situation thoroughly before taking action. To be fair, this method of eliminating job applicants has also been attributed to Henry Ford, IBM, and General MacArthur, to name just a few.
And I think it’s bullshit.
I love salt. A dash brings out the subtle flavors of food. Salt is to the beefsteak tomato what Matt Damon is to Ben Affleck – the ingredient that makes it worthy of notice. Though I often taste my food before sprinkling it with salt, I like to think that my decision to pre-salt my bowl of Fly Bar’s truffled macaroni and cheese doesn’t make me incapable of critical analysis, but rather demonstrates that homo sapiens are able to learn and make choices based on previously acquired knowledge. Sure, it’s possible that the restaurant could hire a new chef who knows how to properly season food with what I affectionately call The White Devil, but an extra dash of salt never hurt anybody.
And pepper – make mine freshly ground and applied as liberally to a dish as Donald Trump’s self-tanner is sprayed onto his Oompa Loompa orange face. Black pepper is fine, but a gourmet combination of black, white, red and green peppercorns is sublime. If I had a dick, fresh ground pepper would make it hard.
I’m a terrible person. If Jennifer Aniston had married me (which would have been creepy because she doesn’t have a penis), when we finally divorced and I posed for photos with Angelina Jolie (not nearly as creepy because I’m pretty sure she does have a penis), she would have told the press in that whiny manner of hers that I have a sensitivity chip missing. Blog success came early, along with the accolades that often accompany this lowly profession (erm, if profession means something I do to while away the hours after I’ve completely emptied my bottle of Ketel One each morning) and, as a result, I’ve been
uninterested remiss in acknowledging and responding to some of the lovely awards that have been bestowed upon me by my fellow bloggers.