Monday, May 9, 2011

Fabio is not in my fridge.

The past year has been one of discovery for me. I've discovered that no amount of training will bring my headlights back to high beams; no amount of alcohol can make Donald Trump look sexy (whether I consume it or he does - it won't matter).

It's easier to lose your mind than to lose blib; and it's easier to relax and enjoy life without the responsibility of an adult relationship. There are skeptics out there that believe I'm sneaking into the proverbial fridge getting some "I can't believe it's not butter" action in the middle of the night.

Well let me help you out here. I guarantee the butter lid is on, however, if you are one to play in the stock market - you may have noticed the spike in Duracell over the past 9 months. Look at that, a new discovery - I have no boundaries. I am sooooo going to have the walking into school naked dream tonight after unleashing that bit of information.

Anywhooooo, after 18 months of training I was not getting any new results. So I had to ask myself why I endure the rigorous workouts and the tedious daily calorie counting. Okay, so I only count until the first glass of wine jumps in my hand. What? Math is hard enough already. Like I'm going to cramp a muscle in my brain to satisfy my calorie curiosity?

So what I'm getting at is the following. I quit. Yeah I said it. I quit working out for three weeks. It was liberating. I was free, yes free. This was a wonderful feeling until yesterday when I was blow drying my hair. I suddenly had to disrobe due to the humidity and heat in the room. Then moments later the mirrors cleared - which was the exact moment I decided the gym really missed me. Moral of the story: buy a funhouse mirror.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

If only Bin Laden had vacationed in Vegas

I'm just going to start this out with - I spent the weekend in Vegas. Yes, because when you're on a high note in life you should always visit the world where dreams die and the downtrodden whimper.

In this world of Sin City, who is going to worry about little jiggly on your body - especially when you're looking into the blood-shot eyes of a buck-naked guy who just chased a wily hooker down the hall of his hotel because she absconded with his wallet after coaxing him out of his favorite Holiday shorts. I'm just saying my little problems are forgotten when staring into the eyes of Felony-stupid.

I don't know why the Vegas hotels didn't think to send a 3-day vacation package to Osama Bin Laden before now. That 30-dollar hooker could have blown his head years ago - OFF, I mean blown his head OFF.

I'm kidding. This doesn't really happen, because prostitution is illegal in any county in Nevada with a population of people who have most of their teeth. I feel a check coming from the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority about now.

Okay back to felony stupid - And I'm going to cut a little slack on the stupid part when explaining to you the fact that Big Red is not a quitter. And when I say not a quitter, I mean she will vow to break every bone in her body to prove to me she can fly.

It brings tears to my eyes to see her incredible ambition, but I'm always taken aback when she feels the need to try such risky moves with an audience of - well - a full restaurant and bar.

It was difficult to determine her intended destination when she took flight from a perfectly sturdy bar stool, because she only got as far as my feet. But like I said, she can't even spell quit. No, really, on some days she literally can't. She did however receive a standing ovation when everyone jumped out of their seats to see if there was any blood on the floor. I think the staff of STK actually offered her a weekly gig.