GI Joe - A Real American Suck-fest

Posted by John

The other night I watched the new-to-DVD movie GI Joe: Rise of the Cobra. Oh man, what a disappointment. It should more appropriately have been titled GI Joke: Rise of the Suck; it was that bad. It was like instead of making an actual movie the producers of the film decided to just drop a huge deuce on my childhood memories.

GI Joes were my absolute favorite toys growing up. Between my brother and I we had all the major characters – Duke, Roadblock, Swift Kick, Snake Eyes, Storm Shadow, Alpine, Barbeque, Blow Torch, Cutter… I could go on, and believe me, I could. We would play with those toys day and night, week after week, year after year, until inevitably the little rubber band that held the torso of the action figure to the legs would snap and the Joe was resigned to his ultimate fate – a firecracker shoved up his butt then a shallow grave in the backyard for his remains.

The only other toys that came close to competing with the Joes for my time and affection as a child were Legos. I would tear into a new package of Legos, build the castle or the pirate’s cove or the tree house, deconstruct it, build it again, deconstruct it, build something new, deconstruct it, build something new again… so on and so forth until the Legos lost their usefulness and were resigned to their ultimate fate – a firecracker and a shallow grave in the backyard.

The only advantage Legos had over GI Joes was the opportunity to exercise the burgeoning builder in me. My favorite thing was to combine several sets of Legos and build something wild and crazy no one had ever seen before. I thought I was so awesome at it that I would take pictures of my creations and make my dad send them off to Lego corporate in hopes they would consider me for a full time position as a Lego designer. I never did hear back from Lego, primarily because my dad was a pragmatic man and rather than waste the postage he just mailed those pictures directly to the dumpster. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t blame the man at all. In fact, I applaud him for saving me from the inevitable embarrassment. If I ever have a kid who aspires to create some newfangled bullshit out of his toys then tries to send pictures off to corporate for their approval I’ll do the same thing my dad did, except I’ll probably also just tell my kid his creations are shit. Like, “Look kid, that toy came with instructions for a reason - follow them. If you want to show off your creativity here’s some gunpowder, a couple wicks, and a few matches. Make me proud. Oh, and by the way, your little friend, Pete – he’s just imaginary, which means he’s not real. The sooner you come to grips with that the sooner you’ll stop getting your ass kicked at pre-school.”

Anyway, I think part of the reason the GI Joe movie was so disappointing and terrible was because the toys were so special to me as a child and the nostalgia in me just wanted it to be good. But the other part of the terribleness was because the movie was just full of suck. On paper it sounded like a foolproof film: Take an endearing concept from my childhood – check; Add in a boatload of weapons and ammunition – roger that; Throw in like 8 or 9 explosions per minute (EPM) for the entire duration of the film – got it; Sprinkle in a healthy dose of gratuitous cleavage – done and done. That right there sounds like a badass movie. Unfortunately the producers of the actual film screwed the pooch when they tried to mix in a plot that was likely conceived by a script writer who still had 7 or 8 imaginary friends. Believe me, I’m not spoiling anything by recounting the synopsis of the film here: The bad guys have created nanotechnology-based weapons that are capable of destroying an entire city in the form of warheads that contain “nano-mites” that can eat through any substance on earth whilst simultaneously multiplying themselves on an exponential level. The bad guys have further engineered the nano-mites so they can be injected directly into your brain where they can control your thoughts and actions, so between the warhead-mites and brain-mites the bad guys have the capability of destroying the entire planet and/or controlling its entire population. Enter the Joes who are obviously the only ones capable of stopping the madness and saving humanity.

Believe me, I’m not making any of that up. If I was 4, like I was when I first started playing with GI Joes, I probably would have eaten that shit right up and loved every second of it without asking any questions. But since I’m not 4 I require a little bit more substance to my movies than some bad guy controlling a bunch of nano-mites with his iPhone or something. Seriously, that’s pretty much how it happens in the movie. What happens when Cobra Commander wanders outside of his 3G network and doesn’t get a signal on his phone? Then what? Boom – terrorist threat averted. Look at me; I’m not even a Joe and I still just saved the day. That’s how stupid this plot is.

The movie is then made infinitely worse by the embarrassing acting from top to bottom, starting with the main character, Duke, played by the up-and-coming, and enviably pectoraly-enhanced actor, Channing Tatum. It’ not so much that Tatum can’t act, it’s that he can’t even speak. Seriously, he talks like he has a bunch of diarrhea in his mouth. The director should have recognized this on day one and been like, “Alright, Channing, here’s the deal - since it sounds like you’re eating a Philly cheese steak sandwich while you’re delivering your lines, we’re going to go ahead and remove all your speaking parts from the film. Instead, anytime you’re required to say anything we’re going to have you just take off your shirt and flex your pecs up and down as if they were speaking for you. How does that sound?” In fact, they should have had all the actors speak with their pecs and/or boobs, then I might have actually enjoyed the film.

In stark contrast to the suckiness of GI Joe, the new Terminator movie, Salvation, is certifiably badass. It has boatloads of guns, 8 or 9 EPM’s, and plenty of gratuitous cleavage. Plus, it has a legit plot, real actors, and badass cyborgs. That’s non-stop entertainment from start to finish. In fact, even the wife enjoyed it. Right up until the end, that is, when they had to perform some sort of medical procedure to save the life of one of the characters. The wife was all like, “Oh that is such bullshit! It’s not even possible to perform that procedure!” I just glared at her with complete contempt, contemplating whether I wanted to divorce her or kick her in the teeth. First of all, the movie is set like 8 years in the future; you have no idea what types of medical procedures will or will not be possible 8 years from now. Second of all, you just sat through two fucking hours of a film about a war between humans and machines with artificial intelligence that have made it their primary goal to extinguish the entire human race and the only hope for humanity is a dude, who looks and sounds strangely like Batman, who must find his father, who incidentally is actually younger than he is, invent time travel, send his futuristic younger version of his dad back to the past to save his mother and impregnate her with him so he can be born in order to lead the resistance and defeat the machines, all at the behest of his mother who is dead but whose voice has been persevered for eternity on a tape recorder… After all of that, now you are going to take exception to the film because of a fucking medical procedure that comprises about 10 seconds of the movie!?!? For fuck’s sake, from my blissfully ignorant perspective I’m inclined to put my betting wages on a fucking medical procedure coming to fruition before some fucking free-thinking, humanity-killing cyborgs!!!

Whatever. Don’t be dissuaded by the wife’s medically-based skepticism of the end of the movie; Terminator is a quality piece of cinema, especially when compared to the bed wetting suckiness of GI Joe. There’s no ending that could have salvaged that film. Actually, I take that back – I might have given it a pass if Duke had captured Cobra Commander at the end, shoved an M80 firecracker up his rectum, then buried his remains in a shallow grave in his backyard. At least then I would have felt a little nostalgia for the film. 

I'm Not Really Lovin' It

Posted by John

I realize I’ve been beating this whole office potluck/gluttony thing to death so I promise this will be the last of it after I recap the Dirty Santa Gift Exchange.

We are now on the eve of the 12^th Day of Gluttony and I think everyone is finally ready for it to be over. The whole thing hit a peak/valley Monday when someone actually brought in a bunch of sausage and egg McMuffins. When he walked in with a big McDonald’s bag you could hear an audible murmur rustle through the whole of the building. People emerged from their offices and cubes first to see if it was true, then applaud his ingenuity, and finally to carry him to the gluttony table on their shoulders, singing and dancing all the way. Everyone stood by completely enraptured as he set the McMuffins onto a plate, one by one, stacking them in a pyramid of trans fats and guilt.

But then a strange thing happened – no one ate them. Everyone stood by waiting for someone else to take the plunge but no one did. As it turns out, even the 12 Days of Gluttony has a limit, and that limit is sausage and egg stacked between miniature pancakes. The provider of the bounty just looked on in contempt like that scene in Gladiator when Maximus savagely annihilates his opponents in like 30 seconds flat and the crowd is simply aghast at the brutality of it so Maximus shouts up to them, “Are you not entertained! Are you not entertained!!!” It was almost like everyone was standing around and collectively saying, “Yeah, so the thing about this whole gluttony deal is, we were really all about it until this little McMuffin incident. It just kind of crossed the line a little bit and put everything into perspective, you know?” It’s like when you’re out with your buddies having some drinks and everyone is telling hilarious jokes until your one buddy’s cousin who always tags along with him even though no one likes him busts out the anti-Semitic, homophobic, racist joke about the midget and suddenly the air is sucked out of the room and everyone is just beside themselves with disgust. You didn’t know where the line of decency was until someone crossed it but once it was crossed you just felt gross and guilty for having participated in any of it at all.   

As for the gift exchange itself, it wouldn’t have been a real Dirty Santa Gift Exchange without a corresponding office potluck, and it wouldn’t have been an office potluck without a corresponding theme. This year’s theme was (get ready for it): Italian!

Wait – what? The potluck theme for the Dirty Santa Gift Exchange was Italian food?

I know, I know. I can’t explain it. But whatever, we had lasagna, baked ziti, ravioli, garlic bread, bread sticks, pasta salad, salad salad (with Italian dressing)… you name it; if it has ever made an appearance on an Olive Garden menu, we had it at the Dirty Santa Gift Exchange Potluck.

So obviously the two main questions you’re all asking are: 1) What the hell did you bring? And 2) What the hell did the New Kid bring?

Well, I brought bruschetta. I know, totally out of character for me, but really, it was like 4 ingredients, it fit the theme, and of course I only made enough for like 6 people and of course I went through the line last so I could be like, “Oh wow, it looks like the bruschetta is a big hit, there’s hardly any left…” much to the chagrin of Kathy who brought enough Zuppa Toscana for 30, which might as well have been a crock pot full of diarrhea. Good call on bringing soup to a potluck, Kathy. Maybe while you’re eating it for the next 9 days you can think about bringing something people will actually want to eat to the next potluck.

As for the New Kid… well, it was entirely too predictable. Just as expected he was the only person not to put his name on the sign-up list. I was actually going to sign him up to bring 2 liters of wine just to see what he would do but before I could get to the list the admin. who was organizing the potluck came over to him and was like, “I noticed you haven’t signed up on the list… were you planning on bringing anything?” It was the most passive aggressive potluck bitch slap I’ve ever seen. 

So, sucking at life as he does, the New Kid went to the store the day of the potluck and bought the first thing he saw… quiche. No shit - he brought a fucking quiche to an Italian themed potluck. As I was the last to pass through the potluck line I watched every person walk down the table and when they all got to the quiche every one of them paused as if they were thinking, “What? Is this what I think it is? Did someone bring a fucking quiche to an Italian themed potluck? Honestly, who would do such a thing?” It was unbelievably gratifying to my passive aggressive sense of humor.

So after we stuffed our faces with carbs and starch we got into the actual gift exchange, and unfortunately for the new kid, it went almost exactly as predicted.

This is what you need to know about an office Dirty Santa Gift Exchange: If you want to bring the bestest, most popular gift, choose one of these – a knife, tools, sports equipment or alcohol. Believe me when I say, do not stray from one of these four items. The most popular gifts at this year’s exchange were two utility knives, a set of 12 screwdrivers, a football and a bottle of vodka. No shit, someone brought a bottle of Absolut and it was more popular than an Erin Andrews peephole videotape.

On the other hand if you want to have the shittiest, most horrible Dirty Santa gift, bring one of these: a picture frame, a giant calculator, a candleholder, or a pack of socks. Believe me, if you want to be the office douchebag, bring one of those gifts.

Whenever someone opens a great gift everyone reacts the same way like, “Oh, that is so cool, I’m totally going to steal that,” and the person who brought the gift will not hesitate to be like, “I totally brought that gift! That one’s mine!” And when a shitty gift comes out, the same thing happens every time – you hear the unmistakable sound of a cricket riding a tumbleweed until a few people muster up the nerve to chuckle awkwardly as everyone is thinking, “Who in the hell brought a giant calculator to the Dirty Santa Gift Exchange?” But no one will take responsibility for a bad gift. You could straight up ask who brought the stupid giant calculator and everyone will just look around the room like, “I don’t know. I have no idea who brought the giant calculator.” Come on assholes, there are 25 people in this room and 25 gifts on this table. Someone brought this stupid fucking giant calculator!!!

This year I actually strayed from the knife/tool/football/alcohol formula again and I was nervous as hell I was going to be one of those assholes looking around the room acting like I didn’t know who brought the stupid gift. Thankfully the good ol’ boy who opened my Army Survival Field Manual absolutely loved it and I was applauded for bringing a great gift. Thankfully.

Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the New Kid. The best part for me was, I knew what his gift was and I knew how it was wrapped, so all I had to do was sit back, kick my feet up, and enjoy the ride on the Disaster Train. The bad part for him was, the two gifts preceding his were a knife and a bottle of alcohol, so the anticipation was high. Worse than that, it was our boss who chose his gift. It was just brilliant to watch him unwrap the gift, acknowledge that it was a dvd and start to laugh out loud in anticipation, obviously thinking to himself, “Oh, it’s a dvd; this will probably be hilarious,” then read the title, stop laughing, cock his head to the side in confusion, and announce to the breathless crowd, “Mission: Impossible I…” But he said it more like a question than a statement like, “Mission: Impossible I???” The whole room was dead silent and I could just read everyone’s collective mind, “Mission? :? Impossible? I??? What the fuck?”

I looked across the table at the New Kid who should have had a look of dejection and embarrassment on his face but instead he just looked confused, like he didn’t understand how Mission: Impossible I could have failed so miserably as a Dirty Santa gift. Honestly dude, you brought a fucking quiche to an Italian themed potluck; how on earth did you think Mission: Impossible I was going to be a hit? Honestly?

Worse than even that, one of the topic’s of conversation prior to the gift exchange as everyone was filling up on lasagna and bread sticks was favorite holiday movies. Christmas Vacation, The Grinch, It’s a Wonderful Life, and wouldn’t you know it, the boss actually announced to the room that his family’s favorite Christmas movie is Elf. As I predicted, all the New Kid had to do was bring Elf and everything would have been okay… but alas, he didn’t and it wasn’t.

It’s at times like that when I wish I had the authority to ground the kid. I want so badly to be like, “You need to go to your room right now and think about what you’ve done and don’t come out until you’re tired of sucking at life.”

I know I sound like a horrible person for letting this kid continue to fall on his face like this as if I’m passive aggressively allowing him to produce fodder for the blog, but the truth of the matter is, I only do it because I used to be that kid. I used to be the one making all the horrible, awkward mistakes and sucking at life and honestly I had to fall on my face a bunch of times before I learned. Yes, I could stop the kid at any point in time, but then he’d never learn. And then we’d all be robbed of the joy that comes with his quiches, and Mission: Impossibles, and BBQ chips and vodka-laced fondue... I could stop all of that if I wanted, but then what would I write about?

I guess I could just tell jokes. Hey, have you heard the one about the black Jewish midget who walks into the gay bar…

Mission: Christmas

Posted by John

I don’t work at a gym. Nor do I work at a gay nightclub. As far as I know my coworkers don’t work at a gym or a gay nightclub either, at least between the hours of 8 and 5. Yet despite these facts, the conversations my good friend Chris described overhearing at the gym about caloric intake, portion size and fat content sounded strangely similar to conversations I’ve recently heard around the office… only from a slightly different perspective.

Last week a woman approached me and asked, “Would you like to participate in the Twelve Days of Gluttony?”

With a million thoughts racing through my head I stared backed at her with the blankest of blank expressions, not understanding what in the hell she had just asked me in the least. She could have said any number of other things to me like, “I farted in your tea,” or, “Dolph Lundgren is the most underrated actor of the past 30 years,” or, “I once breast fed a baby emu for three months back in 1994,” or any other statement that was completely unrelated to anything else and also completely ridiculous and I would have accepted it, maybe even responded to it, and moved on with my life like it had never happened. But when she said, “Would you like to participate in the Twelve Days of Gluttony?” I was just absolutely beside myself.

After several awkward seconds I finally pulled it together to say, “Umm… I’m not sure what that is…”

It turns out, 12 Days of Gluttony is almost exactly what it sounds like – For 12 consecutive days a different group in the division is tasked with the responsibility of bringing treats for everyone else in the division. “Treats,” as you can imagine, has a very broad definition but generally includes anything with your lifetime recommended allowance of sugar in it. After this was described to me I instantly thought, “Honestly we’re not going to actually do this, are we? This is a really terrible idea.” Unfortunately I was alone in that thought because everyone else was bat-shit crazy about 12 Days of Gluttony like Jesus himself was baking the brownies and frosting the cupcakes.

Aside from the fact that Jesus hasn’t participated (directly, to my knowledge), the 12 Days of Gluttony have not disappointed. Cookies, cake, pie, strudel, donuts… you name it. If you have ever picked a food item up and thought to yourself, “I don’t really need to eat this,” it has made an appearance on the Table O’ Gluttony. And it’s not like people have just been enjoying this little pursuit; it has been positively ravenous, like a school  of sharks masticating some chum.

As my friend pointed out, if you were to take any of the other Seven Deadly Sins and substituted it for ‘Gluttony’ everyone would be downright appalled. Just imagine the dirty old man in the electrical department with he overactive sweat glands coming in one day and being like, “Alright everybody, who’s up for 12 Days of Lust!?! Woo-hoo! Let’s get it on!” You would vomit then promptly report that dick worm to HR. Or if the boner in the structural group came in one day and was like, “I’m sorry, I can’t finish that work for you, I’m currently on day 6 of my 12 Days of Sloth. I’m really trying not to do anything other than breathe and maybe eat some Cheetos. Oh, wait… Wow, I just shit myself. Man, I’m so lazy I didn’t even know I had to go to the bathroom.” You would not hesitate to kick that guy in the teeth for being a complete piece of shit. But for some reason, somebody comes into the office like, “Who is ready for 12 Days of Gluttony???” and suddenly everyone is going ape-shit like the Jonas brothers are running around the place with their shirtless, pre-teen bodies glistening in the sunlight like little curly-haired, rosy-cheeked nymphs.

Someone actually came up to me the day before my group was the gluttonous providers and asked with more than a little spite if I was bringing a veggie tray. Fuck off already! It was two veggie trays! Two! It’s not like I’m sitting at my fucking desk eating a goddamn veggie tray everyday! I brought two trays to two different potlucks! Maybe if we didn’t have a goddamn potluck every month or 12 days of gluttony I wouldn’t have had to bring in two veggie trays!

After 6 days of Gluttony I can tell you who is really a big fan of this whole operation – the New Kid. After the Thanksgiving Potluck BBQ Ruffles incident I broke him of that pattern of eating potato chips for breakfast every morning. He actually went out and bought the biggest box of Cheerios Costco had to offer and a half-gallon of milk and brought them to work so he could enjoy some cereal for breakfast like a normal human being. Except the thing was, the milk went bad after like a week and he still sucks at life so he hasn’t made the effort to bring any more in, so he has like a pound and a half of Cheerios left but no milk. So the 12 Days of Gluttony couldn’t have come at a better time for him. He will literally burst into the office, throw his bag into his cube, and head straight to the gluttony table without even taking off his coat. It’s hilarious to watch him try to cut into the coffee cake with his frozen fingers because he sucks at life and doesn’t own gloves, then try to pick up a brownie and a couple Rice Krispies treats. He’ll be stuffing his face even as he’s still walking back to his desk and get like cupcake icing on his nose but not notice it for 45 minutes because his face is still numb from the cold. I wish I as making this stuff up.

Also as a result of the BBQ chip incident the New Kid had to step up to the plate for our day of gluttony and I have to admit, he did a pretty good job by bringing in a small crock pot with some melted chocolate for like a makeshift fondue thing. I didn’t try any but apparently it was a huge hit. The next day some woman who doesn’t even work in our department came by to say it was the best chocolate she’d ever had and wanted to know how he made it. It was awesome to watch this conversation unfold

New Kid: Uhh… well, I really just melted some Hershey Kisses and like two other types of chocolate I found at the store. It was nothing special…

Woman: Really? That’s it? There had to be more to it than that. It was so good.

NK: Well, I put some almonds in it too.

Woman: No, it wasn’t the almonds, it was something else.

NK: Oh yeah, well I also mixed in some alcohol.

Woman: You put alcohol in it??

NK: Yeah, I just dumped some whiskey in there to liven it up.

Woman: Oh, well, I see…

As she walked away, clearly a bit put off by that disclosure. The New Kid immediately came bounding over to my desk to gloat.

NK: Did you see that? I have people asking for my chocolate recipe!

Me: I did see it. I also saw how pissed she was to find out you poured a bunch of alcohol into it.

NK: Yeah, I don’t get that at all.

Me: Dude, you put booze in the goddamn chocolate!

NK: So? Why not?

Me: You fucking idiot, I’ll tell you why not. Either that woman is a recovering alcoholic and you just unwittingly pissed away 12 years of sobriety for her, OR she lives in the Southern Baptist Bible Belt for a reason and has never in her life even so much as tasted alcohol and it’s not like you filleted a red snapper in some cooking wine, you literally just dumped whiskey into a pot with some chocolate, so of course she loved it, right up until she gets back to her desk and finds out she made enough Xerox copies of her boobs for the entire office while she was wasted off her ass from your booze-a-rific fondue pot yesterday!

I’m still laughing about the stupidity of it.

Unfortunately for him he doesn’t have a lot of time to redeem himself because tomorrow is the annual Dirty Santa Gift Exchange. If you recall from last year, it was one big hot disaster all around, and particularly so for the New Kid. He forgot about it until the last minute so that morning he had to run to Walgreens and purchased the first thing he saw, which happened to be a signing Santa Clause face. If that wasn’t god awful enough, the head of the division was the one that got stuck with that shit gift. His only saving grave was the absolute atrociousness of the other gifts that were provided. Just to put it in perspective, the most popular gift was a bottle of white zinfandel.

So this time around I’ve been reminding the kid every day to go get his Dirty Santa gift so he doesn’t repeat the debacle from last year. I was doing lunch with him today when he confessed what his gift is going to be for tomorrow – Mission: Impossible I on DVD.

I just stared blankly back at him in disbelief until I could compose myself enough to say, “Yeah, yeah… that sounds like a good gift,” when really in my head I was thinking, “What. The. Fuck. Of all the millions upon millions upon millions of DVD’s the world has to offer, how in the fuck did you settle on Mission: Impossible I??? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it’s a bad movie; I’m just saying it’s a horribly bad Dirty Santa gift. A Christmas Story, Elf, Christmas Vacation, The Grinch, The Thomas Crown Affair… All of these would have been acceptable DVD choices for Dirty Santa. Mission? :? Impossible? I? I don’t get it. Seriously, what was the thought process that led to this decision???”

I briefly thought that I should set the kid straight and save him from the inevitable embarrassment tomorrow but then the strangest thing happened. Somewhere deep in the back of my head I heard this sound. At first it was barely audible and I wasn’t even sure what it was. But then it kept getting louder and louder as if it was getting closer and closer until finally it was unmistakable…

*Choo, Choo! Choooo, Choo!* “All aboard! All aboard the Disaster Train! Next stop: Humiliationville! All aboard!”

And I’ll tell you what, when I heard that train a-comin’, I wanted to be the first one to get on board and hand the conductor my ticket.

And I’ll tell you another thing, I just hope his Disaster Train arrives at the station before mine does tomorrow because my gift is either going to be badass awesome, or it’s going up in a huge, raging blaze of glory. Stay tuned… 

Club Dumbbell

Posted By Chris

I try to live a healthy life. I eat fairly well, and I stay active. I play basketball, I run, and I go to the gym. I’ve belonged to a gym for almost 5 years now, and I haven’t really met anyone. That’s because I go to the locker room, put my iPod earbuds into my ears, go workout, and then go back to my locker and remove my earbuds and go home. I give a head nod when I make eye contact with anyone, but everyone has pretty much figured out I’m not at the gym for conversation. I look around and see all these guys talking and laughing, but I have no idea what they’re saying because my Vox Jaguars song is usually a bit too loud. I’m pretty sure they all think I’m the stuck up guy at the gym, because hardly anyone else is listening to an iPod at the time I usually go. This is what I imagine a typical conversation is like with everyone else but me:

Muscles #1: Look at that guy, why does he always have his iPod on? None of us do. Does he think he’s too good to talk to us?

Muscles #2: He must. And why does he always wear those shirts that don’t make sense. They’re not even Under Armour or Nike. And why aren’t the sleeves cut off? He probably gets them at goodwill or something. (Sidenote: I do)

Muscles #3: Come on guys, maybe he just likes to get in and get out. He’s here like half the time we are because he doesn’t get stuck in small talk. Or maybe he just likes to relieve stress after work by working out and just listening to his music. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk because he’s on the phone all day and realizes how stupid most people are, and just needs a break.

Muscles #4: Shut up! Everyone wants to talk to us because we have big muscles. It’s impossible he wouldn’t want to talk to us and our muscles. Go do some squats.

So that’s what’s going on in my mind when I see people talking, but I’ve never paused my song to see if I was right. But the other day at the gym, a tragedy occurred. My iPod battery died mid-workout. The music was over, but I left my earbuds in so as not to be disturbed. I heard people talking, but to my surprise, they weren’t talking about me or my gym attire. In fact, after 30 minutes of listening to conversations, I couldn’t tell if I was at a gym or a gay nightclub.

I’ve never been to a gay club, but this is the visual I have:

A bunch of fit men in either no shirts or tank tops. They’re sweaty, and they’re burning calories every second. Sound familiar.

Because I had never listened to these conversations before, I was really surprised how open all of these guys were about their admiration for each other’s physique. I actually heard one guy say to another guy, “you’ve got great calves. ” I wouldn’t say that to another man without at least taking him out to dinner first.

Diet was another main topic of conversation. It was hard to believe this group of big dudes, each with a multitude of tats, were discussing caloric intake, fat content, and serving sizes. I looked around to see if Rachael Ray was going to appear with a pork chop and a deck of cards to give a demonstration. It seems like whenever I talk about serving sizes with my friends, the portions are on a much bigger scale. Like, “I ate 4 POUNDS of crab legs”, or, “John and I split a BUCKET of beer.” Never have I mentioned “cups of broccoli” or “ounces of salmon”.

One guy admitted he ate a Lean Cuisine for lunch earlier that day. Really. Well, at least he has something in common with every woman in my office. I want to officially add this to my list of instant signs that I won’t like a person. If a man eats a Lean Cuisine for lunch, he will not be my friend. I can’t imagine any man with a set of testicles sitting down to enjoy a pre-packaged, calorie-controlled diet lunch who advertises itself as a proud partner of Weight Watchers. You’re a man, not a woman in her early twenties who’s starving herself to fit into a bridesmaid dress next month. You’re 220 pounds and have a tribal tattoo across your bicep for fucks sake. Why aren’t you eating a foot-long turkey sub, or a dead deer you found along the side of the highway? Put down your Lemongrass Chicken and grow a pair.

During the diet portion of the conversation, one of these guys was proud to share that he “caved in and had a donut this weekend.” If a donut promotes feelings of guilt, I can imagine what the rest of your life is like. You most likely order Michelob Ultra when you go out with your boys, but you never have more than 2 and never stay out too late because muscle growth mostly occurs at night after 8 solid hours of sleep. When offered any food in a social situation you claim you “just ate” and refuse, because if you have a plate of nachos or some chicken tenders you’ll have to run an extra mile the next morning. You never miss an issue of Men’s Health, and constantly brag about biking to work in the morning. Let’s compare and guess who’s happier with their life. Last Friday I had a sixer of Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale (214 calories/bottle) (http://www.sierranevada.com/beers/celebrationale.html), followed by a plate of barbequed ribs. I stayed up until 1:00 eating nachos and salsa, and woke up early the next day. I subscribe to Rolling Stone, and to prevent smelling like dirty feet all day, I drive my car to work. Let’s just say I’m guessing the reason you typically avoid donuts is because the donut hole reminds you of the spacious void you have created in your social life because of your crazy health habits.

Another phenomenon that caught my attention while my iPod was dead was all the grunting that goes on during weightlifting. It’s sounds like Monica Seles is doing the bench press next to me, except with the voice of Tom Selleck. I can’t tell if the guy is maxing out his bench or having an orgasm. In my opinion, that’s kind of a personal noise to make in public. Maybe my lack of grunting is the reason I bench 150 lbs. less than some people, but at least it doesn’t sound like I’m taking a shit every 10 seconds.

Another thing I’ve noticed about these guys is their perpetual year long tan. I didn’t think anyone used tanning beds anymore, but one of these guys actually had goggle marks around his eyes. So you obsess about every morsel of food that enters your body, but aren’t concerned about the Stage 2 skin cancer on your back? Good logic. And these same, golden brown colored men were all very smooth. Not smooth talking, but smooth like seals, as in they shaved all their body hair. So I guess what I’m trying to say is, these guys were like tanned seals with 6 packs and skin cancer who like to grunt and have social issues, body image problems, and a subscription to Men’s Health. And their conversations may or may not be appropriate for a gay club.

In spite of everything I’ve described, I’ve decided to put all of these stereotypes behind me and try to befriend this group. And sticking with the Christmas spirit, I’m going to try and win them over with gifts. Instead of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, I’m going with Muscle Milk, tanning oil, and Lean Cuisines. I hope to have my matching tribal tattoo by New Years.

The Rudolph Reindeer Affair

Posted by John

Today I had to travel to podunk southern Illinois to do a site survey on a tiny little community hospital that was so old, Lincoln was circumcised in it. It was the type of site visit that from the outset of the day had the potential to be the most boring experience of my life or the most horrific. I’d say it landed somewhere in the middle.

Things started to get interesting after I arrived and met the maintenance supervisor, Charlie, who was a behemoth of a man and the one whose care I would be in throughout the day. Charlie was perhaps the nicest man on the face of the earth but that didn’t make him any less intimidating when he greeted me with a bear paw-like hand that made my own hand look like the foot of a chickadee inside of it.

Things got more interesting shortly after when he ushered me into the surgery ward while a procedure was underway. I was like, “Look Charlie, I’m not in any hurry, we can wait until this procedure is done.”

“Oh, it’s not problem, I’m in here all the time.”

No, I think it kind of is a problem, especially from the perspective of the State Board of Health… “Seriously, I can wait. We’ll just come back.”

“Nonsense. Here, just put these on,” as he handed me a fabric hairnet and little booties for my shoes. “Here, you’ll need one of these too,” he said, handing me a white coat he procured from a rack hanging in the hallway, “Not sure if it’ll fit you though,” as he was putting on a similar one for himself.

Indeed, my white coat didn’t fit. In fact, it looked like it belonged to a hobbit, if hobbits had a surgical center in the Shire. I had to raise my arms straight into the air and wrastle the coat onto my body and even then the sleeves only came down to mid-forearm. The fucking thing had my shoulders pulled so taut it felt like a full-body Chinese finger trap.

Charlie took one look at me and just started laughing.

Yeah, real funny dickface. Your white coat looks like it was tailored for a fucking yeti and here I am in a goddamn medical straight jacket that Houdini himself couldn’t escape from. Laugh it up. And I’m pretty sure it’s imparting more biological agents onto my person than I am onto it. Seriously, this thing smells like someone’s gallbladder. While we’re keeping up sanitary appearances here do you have a surgical mask I can use to cover up my bellybutton or some shit?

As humiliating as that was the rest of the visit was fairly uneventful and I got on the road home at a decent hour. Decent enough in fact that it afforded me enough time to make the bad decision to pull off in another little shit-town in southern Illinois at a local antique store. Truthfully I was sucked in by the Christmas decorations they had displayed in the front window, thinking I could find some decent ornaments for my mom’s stocking or something. I walked into the sound of two women fighting in the back room about the best type of hairspray or something until one of them noticed I was there, “We got someone here,” she said emerging from the back, “Well hi there! Can I help you find something?” she asked in a genuinely friendly tone.

“Uhh… no, I’m just browsing,” I said.

“Where you coming from?” she asked.

“Mount Vernon.”

“You form Mount Vernon!?!” she exclaimed with more than just a little excitement.

“Well, no. I was just in Mount Vernon. I’m from Nashville.”

“Nashville, Illinois!?! I got a coon huntin’ buddy from Nashville! Bobby Miller, from Nashville, Illinois.”

Ah, fucking-a, what did I just walk into here? “Actually, I’m from Nashville, Tennessee.”

“Nashville, Tennessee!?! You a singer!?!”

Oh, God save me… “No. No, I’m not.”

“Well what you doin’ in these parts???”

Seriously, this went on for a solid 6 or 7 minutes as she followed me around the store as I observed the most pathetic collection of antiques I could have ever imagined. The old saying in the antique business that one man’s junk is another man’s treasure was entirely inaccurate in this place. It would have been more appropriate to say that one man’s junk is still a bunch of goddamn junk regardless of who owns it. I couldn’t even find a single piece of shit that I would consider buying and throwing away, let alone giving to my mother as a gift, but it was entirely evident that the woman was so enamored with the city boy from Nashville, Tennessee who had just wandered into her store that she would have been positively devastated if I didn’t buy something from her and I certainly didn’t have the fortitude of character to walk the fuck out of the place without making a purchase. So I pointed to a 12” tall carved wooden reindeer in the front window and asked how much it was.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Are you shitting me? You don’t know what the price of that stupid thing is?

“Let me call Billy,” she said as she went to the phone and dialed up Billy, who I could only assume was either an expert in carved reindeer or was like the Deal Or No Deal banker dude who set the price on shit over the phone. “Hey Billy! How much is that wood reindeer in the Window?... The wood one…. In the window… It’s wood… Right in the front window…” That went on for several seconds until, “Okay, I’ll tell him,” she said hanging up the phone. “$16!”

$16! Sixteen-fucking-dollars!!! I wouldn’t spend $16 even if Old Saint Nick himself carved this shit out of endangered North Pole woolly mammoth tusks!

Just then the other woman emerged from the back, “$16! That thing ain’t worth $16! It ain’t worth more than $8!”

Thank god, a voice of reason from the peanut gallery!

I briefly turned to look at the reindeer that was going to be my folly and to contemplate what I’d gotten myself into, then turned back to find a 15 year-old kid dressed from head to tow in camouflage had literally materialized from thin air and was like, “That thing ain’t worth $16! I found it in a box in the back!”

Jesus, what is happening??? Where the fuck did that kid come from? Was he here the whole time, hiding in his camou behind a poinsettia or some shit???

“You could get that thing at a craft store for $4!” The second woman said.

“I wouldn’t spend more than $2 on it,” the kid replied. I felt like I was on an episode of Hillbilly Price is Right.

“Call Billy back,” the second woman said, “He don’t know what he’s talking about.”

So the first dialed Billy up again, “Hey Billy! That wood reindeer ain’t $16… The wood one…. In the window… It’s wood… Right in the front window… It ain’t $16,” again, this went on forever. “Okay, I’ll tell him,” she said hanging up. “$10!”

$10! Ten-fucking-dollars!!! We were just at 2! How did we jump back to 10???

Apparently Hillbilly Bob Barker had the final say when it came to pricing his shit because the three of them just stood there staring at me with bated breath waiting on my next move, like they were all thinking, “Well, what’s it gonna be, city boy? You gonna spend 10 bucks on this reindeer or you just gonna steal food right off our plates while you run home to the big city?”

Jesus Christ! Fine, whatever, “I can do $10,” I said as I pulled my wallet out with more than a little spite.

“Don’t be giving me no hundreds!” The first woman exclaimed.

Fucking-A, what do I look like here? “No, it’s just a 20. Can you do a 20?” Just then the kid went and retrieved the reindeer and set it down on the counter as the first woman was getting me my change. I looked down at the stupid reindeer and fuck me if it wasn’t broken. Seriously, the tail was broken clean off the goddamn thing!

You have got to be shitting me! You are selling me a goddamn broken reindeer that my cat could do a better job whittling out of its own shit and here I am giving you $10 for it?!?

But alas, I was committed at that point and I honestly figured I was spending $10 just to get the hell out of there.

I walked out of that stupid fucking store holding that stupid fucking reindeer just positively fuming and thinking to myself, “If only I was Pierce Brosnan I could have totally Thomas Crown Affaired their asses and stolen this goddamn thing.” Whatever.

You better believe I’m still giving it to my mom.