Sorry for the whole “going MIA for several months” thing, it’s been hard for me to have a desire to write, as I’m constantly doing it for school these days. At least it seems like it. Whatev. Anyways, I know that everyone gets old and dies and all that shit, and I know that old people think they deserve to have the rights that everyone else in the world does. But get the fuck out of my gym. Please. I know that you finally saved up enough UPC codes and got that sweet new fanny pack from the Mott’s applesauce company to show off, but do it somewhere that I don’t have to trip over you. Fuck. It’s one thing to see your friend Bertha from down the hall in your retirement home at the grocery store, and feel the need to have a half an hour conversation about tapioca pudding and dominos while blocking an entire aisle with your shopping carts that have nothing fucking in them. I get that. I can totally accept that the grocery store is like the elephant graveyard for you fuckers. But for the love of all that is holy – Baby Jesus, Buddha, Zeus, and whatever deity Eskimos pray to – get the fuck out of my gym.
I am almost 30. I had every intention of either dying in a badass explosion or bank heist or something sweet at 40, but recently my friend Tara convinced me that 50 is the new 40. Whatev, so long as I’m dead before I hit the age that I annoy the holy fuck out of everyone else in that comes in contact with me. “Brah, why are you so hostile to old people?”, you ask? Well let me explain to you exactly what I encounter every single day at my gym. There are 3 parking lots to use. The parking isn’t the greatest, but it’s certainly plentiful. And yet, every single day that I get to the gym, no matter what time it is, there is no parking, because EVERY FUCKING CAR IS PARKED IN 2 SPOTS. For some reason, even though these old fuckers obviously have all come from the same graveyard to piss me off, they don’t carpool or take one of those fancy geriatric buses that they get to use for free. So I get to take a quarter mile walk before my workout even starts.
As soon as I walk into the gym, I am greeted by the sight of about 40 fat old ladies, floating around on neon pink pool-noodles, like enormous, horrifying, pale lilypads in the pool that I was excited to use when I first signed up for the gym. Yeah, I think for the 8 months I’ve been a member, I’ve been in the pool twice. Somehow worse is the hot tub. I thought I’d be able to get more use out of it, but it’s like balls soup in there, because the old fuckers that manage to break a sweat from shuffling around the indoor track for 13 minutes don’t shower off before they get in it. I decided that soaking up the hemorrhoid juice bubbling around in the hot tub isn’t in my best interest, so I generally skip that too. I go into the locker room to put my gym bag away, and am immediately bombarded with old scrotums swinging around like fucking pendulums in fast forward. Every old dude is for some reason bending over naked in front of the only open lockers in the locker room, or standing like Captain Morgan and regaling each other with racist stories while drying their balls off. I swear to God, there is a public hair dryer in there – I have seen old guys blow drying their junk after the shower. Now, I don’t use a hair dryer, but I don’t need hot air blowing crusty pubes around the fucking locker room. It’s bad enough that I step on used bandaids in the shower.
On the days that I manage to not puke all over the place and run out of the gym horrified, I go up the stairs to start my workout. There are 2 sides to the gym – one is for cardio, the other is for weight training. On the cardio side, there are probably about 20 treadmills, 15 elipticals, 10 bikes, and a couple other random machines that no one ever uses because they were manufactured in the late ’70’s and will probably scrape you and give you tetanus if you attempt it. There are several clipboards hanging on the wall so you can sign up for a machine and you get to use it for a half an hour before you have to get off and sign up for another one. Annoying rule, but it gets busy in there, so I understand it. Except that the stupidass old people that go there don’t sign up for anything, they just pretend like they didn’t know about it when you say something to them, and get all indignant about it when you start yelling at them. What the fuck are you doing, walking at a 1.3 speed on a treadmill anyways? You can do that on the fucking track you stupid tardos. Fuck.
On the weight training side, I constantly have to stand guard on the machines I’m using between reps, because those muscle shirt, side boob showing old dudes and unitard wearing Forever 21 grandmas are fucking vultures, and will move your water bottle out of their way and then sit on your machine for fucking 25 minutes if you step off for even a second. Then, when you finally get your machine back, it smells like farts and covered in some kind of filmy residue that is left by snails and the fucking walking dead. WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO WORK OUT YOUR TRICEPS, BERTHA? It’s like some asshole told them that doing tricep extensions with 10LBs is the equivalent of drinking out of the Fountain of Youth. Maybe I’ll go get free weights instead. Oh shit, nevermind. Some fat, super hairy old guy is doing is fat guy ab workout directly in front of the weight rack instead of in the designated ab workout area. Hank Hill would be pissed if he was real. That shit is designated for a reason, sonnnn. Maybe if I started accidentally dropping 25LB kettleballs on the dickholes that I have to reach over to get them, they’d learn. Or die. Either way, my problem would be temporarily solved.
Anyways. This isn’t very nature-esque, I guess. Although, it is nature’s fault that people get old. Or human nature? I dunno. Fuck you nature, regardless.
So, I’m on my winter break from school, and I’ve been looking forward to stealing someone’s trash can lid and recklessly sliding down a snowy hill for months now, but of course, this year there is no snow in Pittsburgh. All of the locals are suggesting that it’s some sort of terrible yinzer miracle, I’m suggesting that it’s some bullshit. If it’s gonna be cold as balls, there should at least be snow! Shit. So, that’s basically how snow ended up on my hate list. You did this to yourself, snow. I was perfectly fine writing about how female facial hair sucks, but you had to get all twatish this year. Whatev.
When I was stationed in Fairbanks, AK, I had plenty of time to learn the ways of snow fuckery. For the most part, I didn’t mind it so much, because like I said, if it’s gonna be cold, there should at least be snow. Snow is like my neighbor’s kid that I dumped boiling macaroni and cheese water on – fun for a minute, and then melts right around the time that you’re getting sick of it. Minus the Cheeto-stained Mickey Mouse shirt and hospital bills, I mean. Anyways, my friend Nick and I were driving through Fairbanks in the winter. It was probably about -25 nutsack-freezing degrees out, and snowy. He had mentioned that he was having some car trouble, and he wanted to go get a new battery or something. Of course, he mentioned this fact to me after his car died in the parking lot of some skeezy Alaskan rape store. It wasn’t a big deal, we were close to the mechanic so worst case scenario, we’d have to wait a couple hours for the mechanic to decide how hard he was going to financially butt-love Nick. The car started back up though, so all was right in the world.
Now, Fairbanks is probably about 30 miles away from the Air Force base that I was stationed at, and when the roads suck, it takes a decent while to get to where you need to be. We had JUST left city limits, and were probably about 2 miles away from civilization, when Nick’s car died again. Except this time, it wouldn’t start. Awesome. So it’s fucking super cold, and we have no way to heat ourselves. Nick’s cell phone was dead, and I didn’t bring mine because texting was expensive back then, and talking on the phone is just terrible. Seriously, I’d rather eat a bowl of paint chips for breakfast than be forced into some awkward phone call. I don’t know why, but usually when I’m on the phone with someone, I lose anything interesting that I could possibly talk about immediately. Maybe it’s just me, maybe it’s a guy thing…I don’t know. All I know is that unless you’re in my family or are the 1 or 2 of my friends that I actually have something to talk about for longer than 3 minutes, don’t call me. Unless you like to hear me breathe. Creep.
So, there are probably 2 or 3 abandoned looking buildings on the side of the road, and we decide that it’s our best chance of survival, even if we are forced into some Alaskan meth-cooking cartel. Of course, the snow is knee deep, and there is one of those chain link fences that is supposed to keep moose from running out into the middle of the road blocking our path. It doesn’t seem like a big deal, except that climbing up a metal fence with no gloves on when it’s -fuckingcold degrees outside is like getting a hold of Jack Frost’s grundle and giving him a handy j. We climb the fence, and trudge our way for about half a mile and we notice that there is a random Pizza Hut behind the creepy hobo buildings. Thank the pan-crust pizza loving Jesus. We get in and defrost and call our boss to come pick us up on a PAY PHONE (hell yeah) and I find that as I hopped the fence, I lost my wallet, ID, money, and whatever else I had in my pockets in the goddamn snowbank surrounding it. Fucking thieving snow.
Anyways, I got some free pizza since Nick had to buy, and we got back ok, and I had to get everything I lost reissued to me (getting a military ID replaced sucks, you get scolded like an asshole that went out of his way to lose it). I guess my hatred for the lack of snow this year was more apparent in this than for snow itself, but whatever. You get the drift. The…SNOW DRIFT. Oh shnap. Also, I was dating a really hot chick named Robin somewhere around that time, and I learned from the 2 or 3 romantic comedies that I was forced to sit through that it’s “cute” or “playful” to push your significant other into deep snow banks. So I shoved her in some, but didn’t let her drag me in after her, because fuck that, I’m no fool. Getting bitched at for like 4 hours straight was not the reaction I expected. Goddamn romantic comedies and their lies.
Fuck you, nature.
When I was 19 I had just joined the military. I got through boot camp with no problems, and just graduated into my tech school at Keesler AFB, MS. I was pretty stoked about getting back to semi-humanity again. I mean, there was still marching to class and uniform inspections, but at least I got to watch tv when I was off…Shit, at least I GOT days off. Anyways, I was brand new to my flight, and I had a roommate that happened to be on the opposite sleeping schedule as me. Being the new guy, I tried really hard to be courteous and not wake him up. I would always be out of the room when he was sleeping, and I had my alarm clock set to a low volume, that kinda thing. One night I was sleeping, and suddenly my alarm went off and it was the loudest fucking thing ever. I don’t think my roommate was in the room at the time, but since I had tried so hard for so long to keep it quiet when he might be sleeping, my badass natural instinct kicked in and I was all over my alarm clock trying to turn it off. No matter what button I pressed, the alarm wouldn’t stop. Eventually I took the batteries out, ripped it out of the wall, and smashed it against the floor with retard strength. It was only then that I realized that there were lights flashing around my room – it was the goddamn fire alarm. Apparently lightning hit the building, since lightning does that kind of clever bullshit in Mississippi, and set the fire alarms off, which in turn, transformed me into an asshat. Well played, nature. You owe me an alarm clock.
Anyways, the best thing about having my semi-freedom back was that I could talk to the ladies again. The secret was to find a chick that wasn’t in your flight, so that you didn’t have to see her all the time. I know, it’s fucked up, but I was 19 and awesome so shut your face. ANYWAYS, I met a chick named Ashley, which under normal conditions would’ve been unacceptable because my sister is named Ashley, but at the time I was able to see past the name – mostly due to the fact that I couldn’t remember it for the first 3 weeks that we were “dating”. I use the term loosely, because really all we did was make out in the bushes next to some hillbilly motherfucker’s swamp house, and then go eat Popeye’s chicken. Don’t worry, I have a great reason to remember her crazy ass now. It was the perfect situation, because her tech school was only like a month long or something, so she’d get shipped out of there before she annoyed me too much. So, her class graduates, and we’re “celebrating” in a bush next to the golf course, when randomly, she asks me to marry her. Are you goddamn kidding me?! Bitch I can’t even remember your name! I had been calling her “hey” and “you”, and I think I might’ve called her “tits vanderboob” or something awesome like that a couple times. ALL OF THAT CHARM WAS WASTED. Argh. So I calmly dropped that 105LB basket of whore in the bushes and scampered off like a motherfucking space gazelle into the night.
Probably a month later, still in tech school, I was talking to this guy in my class about words that sound like funny things. I said “masticate”, which means “to chew”. Suddenly, some chick that I didn’t know jumps out of the ceiling or from under the table or wherever the fuck she was hiding like a goddamn ninja and goes to find my instructor and tell him that I was sexually harassing her. I explained my situation, but me telling the instructor that she wasn’t nearly hot enough for me to sexually harass wasn’t a good defense, and I was held back a fucking month. Goddammit.
NOW that I had a month extra in Mississ-fucking-ippi, I decided to go see some friends of mine that live in Georgia during a 4-day weekend. I didn’t have a car at the time, so I found some Greyhound bus tickets for cheap. Unfortunately the bus didn’t leave until like 1AM, so I was sitting at the bus station in the middle of the night in the ghettos of Biloxi. I was minding my business, when some guy sits down next to me. He starts telling me all about how he was just released from jail and how bad of a motherfucker he is, and how I should probably give him some money. So, naturally, my mouth starts working faster than my brain, and I start talking shit to him. Something about him being a hobo that looks like Bert from Sesame Street rolled around in HIV, acne, and duck sauce. He mentioned that it’s a bad part of town for a white boy, but when I pointed out that he was also white, he looked confused. I don’t remember everything that we talked about. I DO remember that I was pretty sure that I was about to get stabbed up at a fucking Greyhound bus station, which was not one of the badass ways that I had planned on dying. Suddenly, some big ol fat chick comes bounding out of the shadows like the koolaid man and starts yelling at him about robbing people. He starts yelling at her, blah blah. Apparently, he was in jail for selling illegal motorized scooters or something stupid like that, I dunno. They were yelling at each other like the angry beavers, so I left them to bitch at each other while I boarded the bus that was 45 minutes late. Stupid fucking Mississippi.
I know, most of these things don’t seem like natural occurrences, but they are – Mississippi itself turns people fucking insane. I don’t know if it’s the 100% humidity at 95 degrees, the polluted swamp water that people mix up their moonshine with, the fact that gonorrhea actually has legs, teeth, and a fucking nutsack chewing agenda there or what, but it’s fucked up for real. I read a book onces about some kind of ancient evil living in some cave underground or something that turns people retarded, so it might be that. I dunno. All I know for sure is that there is nothing worth seeing in Mississippi, it’s basically a swamp filled with ugly chicks, fat guys that can’t read, and run-down casinos. And ancient evil. Whatev.
Fuck you, nature.
I know, I know – Nickelback isn’t exactly nature-esque, but hear me out. Sometimes I’ll go on my Facebook page and poll my friends about what they hate more, and give them some options. My friend Nick, one of the most creatively hateful people I know, suggested Nickelback with the explanation that “Nickelback is a force of evil, and evil is a part of nature.” Wise words my friend. Anyways, Nickelback is fucking terrible. They are the epitome of what a band should never, ever be, and yet thanks to Nascar-watching, 1-eyed hillbilly halftards that like to play radio edited Nickelback songs that they recorded onto a mix-tape, while they’re banging their sisters on the display beds in the Wal-Mart Supercenter, the band is popular. And worse than that, successful. It makes me sad that the masses have such control over something as powerful as music; Nowadays (holy fuck that’s an old person word) people don’t really give a shit about well written lyrics and non-synthesized music. 4-chord wonders top the rock charts and no-talent urethras get rich singing about hookers and how much money they have. IF YOU’RE GOING TO SING ABOUT A HOOKER, IT BETTER BE ABOUT HOW YOU DIDN’T PAY HER BECAUSE SHE GAVE YOU HEPATITIS.
I don’t remember the place or time that I first heard Nickelback, probably because as soon as the lead singer Chad Kroeger’s voice forcibly entered my ears and started raping my brain, I went into seizures or shock or a fucking short coma. I also couldn’t tell you the first popular song of theirs, I tried looking up a discography so it would make more sense, but the song titles didn’t really help me, and I’d rather jump off of my balcony than preview the songs to make this more accurate. It doesn’t really matter anyways, since all of Nickelback’s songs sound like a chainsaw cutting through cement and orphans for 3 minutes or so. All I know is that when that shit hit my ear-holes, I went into my fucking fight-or-flight mode. Shit. I would rather listen to cannibals eating me alive than Nickelback. I would rather listen to cancer rapidly growing in my body than Nickelback. And if I ever get cancer, I’m going to autograph pictures of it and send them to the members of Nickelback. Seriously.
Chad Kroeger, the band’s lead singer, is a twat. He looks like Joe Camel with a fucking perm. And his name is Chad. Chad is the ultimate douche name. Whenever I think of what a “Chad” would look like, I think of some 135LB, pink polo shirt wearing dingleberry that tells chicks at the gym that he’s a fan of The Beatles and Kanye West in the same sentence, and can only play 3 songs on the guitar, all of them by the Goo Goo Dolls. Kroeger is a terrible musician, a terrible singer, a terrible songwriter, and if there was a league of villanous musicians, he’d be the king of those douches. His 2nd in command would be the trifecta of Madonna, Cher and Celine Dion fused together by one of their saggy tits. John Mayer and Gwen Stefani would be the evil lair janitors. And they’d live in some fucking swamp somewhere, preying on frogs, small children, and drunk sorority girls. The ones that claim they’re “born again” virgins when they’re sober, but as soon as the Coors Light hits their lips, they pull out their used tampons and start grinding folding lawn chairs.
I hate Nickelback so much. They make me not want to go to public sporting events or badass military airshows because I know for a fact that at some point, Nickelback will be played over a loudspeaker, and the combination of Nickelback songs and the idiots that LIKE Nickelback surrounding me and are singing the wrong lyrics, will throw me into a homicidal frenzy.
Fuck you, nature. And fuck you, Nickelback.