You want beef?

It’s Sunday and I’m at work.  It’s actually my scheduled day to work, so this isn’t a ranty post about having to work weekends and the world can lick my sweaty bumhole.

Sorry.

Instead, this is a post about the baffling and idiotic mindset of one of my friends and colleagues who is also here today.

So, for context, we have a large bistro on campus here at work which offers all sorts of foods, drinks and dubious stains and spills on the floor.  Usually, when I take my lunch, I head down to the bistro and then text my colleague (let’s call her Numpty) and let her know what free soups they have on offer that day.  She then replies and lets me know which she’d like and I take one back to her.

I’m simply awesome like that.

Well, being a Sunday, there was only one choice of soup instead of the usual three.  Today’s soup was beef chilli.  Yes, I know it’s not technically a soup, but it resembles a soup more than a barrel of squashed frogs.

Actually, squashed frog soup sounds pretty good.

Anyway, when I got down there I sent her a text.  In fact, here is the ACTUAL conversation we had (my comments are in yellow).

twattext

There’s a lot of love between us

I deserved it.

But then again, so did she.  I mean, all she had to do was type ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.  In fact a simple ‘Y’ or ‘N’ would have sufficed.

This is why she’s a twat.

Chatty chatty bang bang! 

Just coasting on the back of my last post; the woman on the exercise bike next to me is having a full blown, animated conversation on her phone. She’s panting heavily which I suppose is… sexy? 

Unlike me,  she’s pedalling very fast and sweating lots. 

Also unlike me –  who is able to compose this post whilst pedalling  – she’s lacking the appropriate concentration necessary to multitask and has missed the pedals twice,  nearly giving herself some complimentary handlebar dentistry. 

Heavy breathing? Sexy. 

Heavy bleeding? Not as much. 

Period. 

FuckMonkey and the five things that annoy me about the gym

Gather ’round, gather ’round; I have a tale to tell……..the tale of FuckMonkey.

Now, before I tell this tale I need to get some stuff off my chest.  At first it will feel like I am never getting to the story of FuckMonkey, but believe me…I am.

All will become clear.

So, to begin, I would like to talk about the gym, again.  The last time I shared observations about the gym I hadn’t been in the country very long so my exposure was as limited as the brain power of…of…well, FuckMonkey actually.

More of that later.

I’ve noticed some behaviours in the gym here in Vegas that just need to be shared. This isn’t including the weirdos who pay a yearly gym subscription just to stretch and do mat exercises on the floor.

Just do that shit at home.

(shrugs)

Anyway, here are 7 baffling and annoying behaviours and practices I’ve seen at the gym, in between gawping at unnecessarily muscular girls’ bums.

1 – Massive Water Bottles.

I don’t really get this one.  These things are mini (but not THAT mini) versions of office water coolers.

water-bottle

Compensating for something?

Considering the gym has drinking fountains and bottle filling stations everywhere offering nice cool filtered water, why do you need to bring such a huge bottle and carry it around with you?  It’s like having a huge plate at an all-you-can eat buffet.  Yes you can put more food on your plate all at once (you greedy fuck), but the food will not be far from the preferred temperature long before you finish the plate.

Mmm, warm water.  Refreshing.

At first I thought it was for those crazy people who do cardio for what seems like hours – putting the rest of us to shame – but these bottles don’t fit through most doorways, let alone the cup-holders on the machines.

Maybe it’s because people don’t want to make the long walk to any of the various drink fountains, but surely that’s just counterproductive…like the dickheads from the car park [parking lot].

This need to carry around enough water to drown a small Hippo still amuses me, and I just want to point and laugh…but I don’t; some of these people are BIG!

Sm bodybuild

Me so THIRSTY!

And, speaking of water….

 

2 – Water Fountain Etiquette

This one is just plain hilarious.  To start, here is an actual photo of one of the water fountains in my gym.

fountains-gym

You’ll notice they’re at slightly different heights; the reason for which is a mystery.  I have seen a dude with dwarfism[1] in there, so is it for him?  I don’t know.

Now I think about it, I’ve never actually seen him take a drink from one of these fountains. He carries around a sensibly sized water bottle because a) he’s not an idiot and b) he has a clear grasp of basic physics.

But there’s something about the varying heights of these fountains that has people gravitating to the one on the left.  I have lost count the amount of times I’ve walked past 2 or 3 people waiting in line for the fountain on the left and quenched my thirst with the one on the right.

If anything, the act of bending down a little further is an extra workout for your abs.

Also, people have no idea how to drink from them. I once saw a mouth breather sucking on the nozzle like it was his mum’s tit.  There’s no way I was getting anywhere near that after him.

Plus, I’ve seen his mum.

(shudder)

Then there are those people who strut to the fountain – overly panting and wheezing (for attention) from lifting heavy things in the air and then putting them down again – only to lean on the fountain with both hands, pausing for effect (and more attention), before drinking.

They can see there are people waiting behind them (at the left fountain, naturally) and yet they stand there all important, entitled and ‘roided up.

Then they take the smallest of sips because the peak of their baseball hat gets in the way.

Speaking of which…

 

3 – Unnecessary attire

I’m not talking about those string thin muscle tops that are less ‘clothing, and more ‘shoelace’, no…I’m talking about hats and sunglasses.

Indoors.

Unless you’re Jake or Elwood Blues, I will always have issues with you wearing sunglasses indoors…you fucking twat.  But I’ve lost track of the number of heavily ‘roided bubble people I’ve seen wearing them in the gym.

bubbleman

“I’m forever made of bubbles….”

Maybe they think it makes them look cool, but they’d be wrong.  I thing I’ve got them sussed; they do all that shouting, grunting and slamming down of weights only to secretly look around afterwards to see if anyone is watching.

We’re not.

We don’t care.

And when these bizarre bumpy behemoths stand around high fiving each other and talk at a DECIBEL LEVEL LOUD ENOUGH TO BE HEARD FROM SPACE, we simply don’t give a shit.

Shut up, bubble people.

But they’re not the worst offenders of unnecessary attire; not by a long shot.  No, the award goes to the mopey teenagers with slouch beanies.  These fuckers really grit my shit.  You know slouch beanies right?  They’re what the smurfs used to wear before they become popular (the beanies, not the Smurfs)

I would normally insert a picture here of a mopey, slouch beanie’d bell-end, but it would fill me with so much rage I might not finish this post.

(breathe…breathe…)

I have lost count the number of fantasies I’ve had of pulling their hat down over their face and garotting them with their headphones.  I find it weird that people wear a hat in the gym anyway, but a big, flaccid woolly bag?

beaniegym

This coming from a man who has a cold head

The reason these skinny (and they’re always skinny), slow blinking, perma-texting Biebers are cold is because the only things that get a work out are their thumbs.  They just move from machine to machine doing half a lacklustre set – on the lowest weight – followed by sitting on the machine with their face in their phones.

Which leads me to….

 

4 – Hogging the machine

If you’re sat on a machine and can see someone waiting, either let the person know how many sets you have left, alternate sets with them, or fuck off.

No reading texts.  No checking Facebook.  Just fuck off.

That is all.

 

5 – Being on the phone

I understand that you may get a call when you’re at the gym; that’s fair.  I also appreciate that sometimes you need to make a call.  But some of these fuckers talk on the phone during their entire workout.

There is nothing more annoying that the person next to you talking constantly, and hands-free on their phones at a volume that is not loud enough to be overheard, but loud enough to piss you off.  Honestly. what is so important that you simply HAVE to have this conversation right now?

Now, the assumption you’re probably having is that all these social butterflies are talking hands-free; not so.  I saw one dude sat on an ab-crunch machine talking into his phone in that walkie-talkie style I despise so much.

Talking like this makes you look like a twat. Fact.

Talking like this makes you look like a twat.
Fact.

For clarity, the ab-crunch machine had overhead handles that you pull down as you crunch, raising your knees and grunting like a porn star.  It was both angering and hilarious to watch this utter penis struggle to maintain a conversation whilst crunching with one hand on his phone and the other holding one of the handles.

It was awkward and embarrassing, all at once.

So, how does all this relate to FuckMonkey?  Well, I’m glad you asked.

A few weeks ago I was in the gym and I was working my back.  Of all the pec-fly machines in the gym, only three of them double as a back-fly machine.

For the uninformed, these machines look something little like this:

fly-machine

Note – that is not Superman

On this day, two out of the three machines were out of service.

I had almost completed my routine and only had the back-fly machine left to use, so I walked towards the one working machine and was headed off by this guy who placed his towel on it and then went to grab some water.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with FuckMonkey.

FuckMonkey hit all 5 on the list.

After standing in line behind someone using the left fountain, he came back, looked at me blankly, put down his oversized water bottle, then adjusted the weight he needed and began doing chest exercises.  I couldn’t believe it, he could’ve chosen ANY of the other pec-fly machines that didn’t double as a back-fly machine, but no…he had to use this one.

Oh well‘, I thought, ‘he shouldn’t be that long‘.

I’ll wait.

He was on the phone (hands-free), mumbling some inaudible shit while he sorted out the height of his seat and began his first set.

I waited.

He finished his set – still mumbling – adjusted his stupid fucking hat and sat there on his phone for what felt like an eternity.

I waited a bit longer.

He pulled himself away from his phone for a for a moment to pout and flex his puny chest muscles in the mirror before looking up at me blankly and adjusting the weight on the machine.

He started his 2nd set.

I waited some more.

After his 2nd set – still mumbling some bollocks into his phone – he went back to texting and pouting and flexing in the mirror.

Again, he looked at me blankly, then adjusted the weight on the machine and began his 3rd set.

After 15 minutes (yes, FIFTEEN minutes) and numerous sets, I caught the eye of a fellow gym member (let’s call him Larry) who gave me a ‘Sheesh! How long is that guy going to take?‘ look.

I nodded back with my best I know, right?‘ look.

After a minute or so Larry walked over to FuckMonkey and did what any Brit would never do; he asked Fuckmonkey how long is is going to be.

Are you going to be long?  That guy behind you is waiting for the machine“.

FuckMonkey muttered something and Larry looked at me, shrugged and went back to his workout.

Now, usually I wouldn’t wait around, but this was the LAST machine in my routine for the day, and the completionist in me just wanted to get it done.

I waited another 10 minutes and FuckMonkey carried on pouting, flexing, mumbling and doing sets…all the time knowing I was stood there shifting from foot to foot and huffing loudly.

Us Brits might not have the balls to confront a stranger, but we sure know how to huff.

At one point, another gym goer asked me if I was using the machine I was leaning against.  I replied with “No, I’m waiting for that machine, right there” and pointed full on and passive aggressively at the one FuckMonkey was on.

FuckMonkey saw me.  FuckMonkey didn’t change his routine.

After a full 25 minutes had passed, enough was enough.  I walked over to FuckMonkey and interrupted his current pouting session.

Excuse me…” (I’m English after all, I don’t want to appear rude), “…how much longer are you going to be?“.

He mumbled something like “M gon’ do, li’, a som’ mo’ set’, li’, 20 o’ wha’ev

I looked at him for a moment, resisting the urge to garotte his weedy little neck, and said sarcastically (and a little aggressively), “So, what are you saying, 20 more minutes?“.

He nodded and said “Yeah“.

And that’s how he got his name.

newspaper

1 This is nothing derogatory about his size, or some cheap shot.  I don’t mock or berate people based on their appearance, but rather their level of sheer Dumbfuckery.  If you’re stupid enough for me to write about you, you’re fair game.  Plus, two of my friends have a beautiful baby boy with dwarfism. (Shout out to J and M!)

The day I tongue-tied a lesbian.

The girl who sits behind me at work is gay.  Is that a relevant or appropriate start to this post?  You betcha.  Let’s call her Cholula.

So, a few of us were talking about pets, particularly dogs and cats, and Cholula said she wanted a dog.  However, she didn’t want anything too vicious as she has a cat.

At this moment her phone rang. As she went to pick up the phone she said, “I don’t want anything eating my cat”.

I quickly replied with, “That’s not what she used to say in her single days.”

She laughed, gagged, fucked up her phone greeting and had to apologise to the caller.

Are you talking at me?

I’m currently sat in the waiting room of the physical therapy clinic whilst my wife undergoes another session following her double ACL knee surgery a few weeks back.

Whew, that was a long sentence.

Anyway, I’m sat here reading crap on my phone (as usual) when I felt the prescence of someone sit down three seats to my left.

A miniscule fraction of a nanosecond passed before I heard a southern American drawl aimed in my general direction.

“That’s a lot of tattoos”

I chose to pretend I hadn’t heard her and kept reading whatever bollocks I was reading on my phone, knowing full well she was talking to me.

How do I know?  Well, because:

A) I have two full tattoo sleeves, and

B) I’m the only other person here.

I could feel her looking at me awaiting some sort of response, like a gormless child waiting for a firework display to begin; slack jawed and unblinking.

The act of ignoring someone does not come as easy to me as many would think, so I succumbed to literal peer pressure and looked up at her old, heavily tanned, heavily cheekboned (due to one surgical procedure too many) face.

I gave her a fake smile.

“A lot of tattoos huh?” she pointlessly asked, in case I hadn’t caught the gist of her last unwelcomed comment.

For a second I toyed with the cliché response of “Oh shit, where the fuck did THEY come from??”, but instead I lifted one arm, admired it for a moment and chuckled a friendly(ish) reply:

“Yeah. And a lot of pain too.”

That should be enough to end this unwanted conversation, I thought.

Wrong.

“Wow, gee whizz”, she continued with me now back to my phone, attempting to re-ignore her.

She then paused for a few seconds to, I assume, scan all my artwork.

Then she let out an audible shudder.

Have you ever heard someone audibly shudder?

What kind of reaction is that?

It’s impossible to describe the sound with the written word, but it was like she had spiders suddenly running up and down her sinewy but saggy, slightly hunched, leathery body.

Silent shudder.

No photos please, this is America

My wife is currently attending her second physical therapy session, having torn the ACL (Anterior Cruciate Ligament) in both knees a couple of months ago.

Yes, BOTH knees. At the same time.

It’s been a fun few weeks.

Anyway, I decided to take a photo of her during today’s session – as you do – and after having taken a seat, a member of staff quickly approached me.

I knew what he was going to say.

He wanted to advise me that, for legal reasons, I had to ensure no other patients were present in the photo.

I knew it…but I was so annoyed that I was being ‘educated’ that I looked him square in the eyes and put on my best ‘in disbelief’ face.

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

He wasn’t.

I had to show him the photo.

Seriously.

What does ‘ the legal system’ think I’m going to do with the photo?

Maybe I’ll post it online and then tag these people randomly in the hope I somehow correctly select them from the 1.65 billion users currently on Facebook?

Maybe ‘the legal system’ is worried I might want to keep it for the wank bank?

Yeah right. These people should be so lucky.  These people would be able to stop the vinegar strokes. They would kill any degree of rigidity.

(looks down)

*slap* *jiggle* *slap*

Nothing.

Jesus, it’s just a photo; it’s not like I’m aiming at them through a high powered rifle laser scope.

But joking aside, I know what the problem is; the physical therapy centre doesn’t want to be sued for unauthorised use of photography of their patients without their expressed permission.

Either that, or the member of staff wanted to check the sweet photo I took of my wife.

I can’t blame him.

(adds it to the wank bank)

Maybe I’ll counter sue these delicate background babies for photo bombing my photo. Had they considered that, huh? Had they??

I didn’t give THEM permission to be in MY photo.

But seriously, what next? Should I expect to be contacted by distraught family members of people featured in the backgrounds of photos from my childhood?  There are literally hundreds of those lurking in photo albums at my Mother’s house.

There was a LOT of skin in the background of those beach photos. 

And a LOT of Speedos.

Tight, miniscule Speedos

*slap* *jiggle* *sl…

Wait, where’d he go?

image

Talking crap

I’ve just been for that first satisfying bowel movement of the day.  The one that usurps all others.

It was great.

But, unlike those I enjoy at weekends, this one was at the office.

A downside to curling out a fresh biscuit at work is that you’re not always the only baker in the bakery.  This visit was one of those times.

Now, a story like this isn’t unusual under normal circumstances, but this was far from normal.  As I entered the toilets [restroom/bathroom] I could hear that the occupant of the far cubicle [stall] was talking to someone.  He was on the phone.

I took the first cubicle because, well, no-one likes to poo within a foot of another person.  I don’t care if there’s a layer of wood between me and him; if I can see the shadow of his feet, I’m too close.

The toilets at work don’t have piped in music, nor are they located next to an airport runway so it was deathly quiet in there and therefore I could hear every word he was saying.

“I know”

“Yes, I heard you”

“Well, you hurt my feelings”

“Yes”

“Yes I know”

“OK”

There was a pause.

“I love you”

His call must have ended at that point because he then proceeded to wipe his arse.

Nice.

I finished my performance, flushed and then spent an unnecessarily long time washing and drying my hands.

Why?

Well, it could be because I believe in good personal hygiene, or it could be because I wanted to see if this guy had the bollocks to come out of his cubicle and reveal himself.

He didn’t.

I wouldn’t have either.

So, to respect his privacy and integrity, I left.

Then, out of respect for the guy, I didn’t hang around in the kitchen waiting to see who emerged.  I didn’t think it was right to make myself a coffee really slowly so I could check out if it was someone I knew (who may read my blog and somehow take this invasion of privacy personally).

After a few minutes he emerged.  Thankfully I didn’t know him.

It was just one of our security team; a massive bastard built like a brick shithouse.

This could be my last post.

picard phone loo