Monthly Archives: February 2009

Dude, All You Own Is A Gym

There is this story on the news.

A fitness trainer and former model has swapped his six-pack for a paunch – in a bid to understand his overweight gym clients.

Paul ‘PJ’ James, whose buff body once graced the Milan catwalk, is now halfway to reaching his goal of weighing 20st following a bizarre New Year’s resolution.

Having started from a healthy 12 and a half stone, he has already reached 15 and a half stone.
(Daily Mail)

I will accept that the metric system probably makes more sense, even if it’s only for the simple fact that everyone in the world uses it except USA (#1), but this stone shit is just ridiculous. You only need to know someone’s weight in stone if you are trying to drown them, and even then it will/won’t matter if they are a witch (which is why you are drowning in the 1st place). But TO THE STORY.

Um, this is a successful PR stunt. It got picked up in a newspaper and is now making its way around the internet. But, dude, all you own is a gym. That is so much work to get the world out about your gym. You need to keep things in perspective. If you were trying to p-mote your blog then MAYBE, but this just does not seem worth it. YOU HAD A SIX-PACK! ULTIMATE!

Stupid thumbhead.

Get It Together Martha Stewart Twitter

Martha Stewart has a Twitter now. Whatever. She never done NOTHING to me. I hope she gets a billion followers and her twits are sent into space. But the intern that actually runs that thing needs 2 get it 2 gether. Because Martha Stewart Twitter is only following six people:

Barack Obama
Snoop Dogg
Cute Overload
Margaret Roach
Jimmy Fallon
Perez Hilton


We Live In A World Of Monsters

I was sitting on the subway train yesterday, facing a normal enough looking man. A human man, I would have assumed, based on his clothing, which was p-coat, watchcap, etc. (He did have on some kind of weird patterned silk shirt, like he was trying to blend into the background of Garden State or something, which might have been a red flag, or a mustard yellow fleur-de-lis on a background of chains flag.) For most of the train ride, I was engrossed in my magazine article, but at some point I noticed furious movement from the man in front of me. He was chewing his nails. FINE. People chew their nails all the time. Except that he was chewing them like they were made out of candy and there had just been an announcement that if you don’t finish all the candy as quickly as possible you’re going to die. The man was not chewing his nails, he was eating his nails, like a RAT. The way a RAT eats its nails.

NOM NOM NOM, indeed.

He would pause and rest his hand on his thigh, but this lasted for maybe two seconds, and then it was GET THOSE FINGERS BACK IN MY MOUTH NOW THANKS. This went on until he got off the train, and one must assume that it kept going, and if I was a serious on-line diaryist I would have gotten off the train and followed him to take the blue pill to see how deep the rabbit hole goes for a SERIOUS ANECDOTE, but I don’t care. Fuck that guy. He is the grossest guy. I hope he accidentally gets almost enough poison on his nails to kill him but not quite and gets really sick and learns a valuable lesson. ABOUT NOT DOING THAT, ARE YOU KIDDING ME, SPLINTER?

You Mess With The Robot, You Get The Tiny Handz

I re-watched the Transformers 2 trailer this morning because something was bothering me.

When you see moments like this, when a teenager goes head to head with a three-story high robot from space bent on destroying the entire planet because he’s sad that his robot brother got melted the last time (or something, I didn’t take Transformers in college so that movie mostly made no sense), the most obvious thought is HOW IS HE GOING TO GET OUT OF THIS ONE, HE’S DOOMED.

That robot is too big!

But what a lot of people don’t realize is that giant space murder robots have very tiny, dainty robot hands, and mostly they just want to gently submit you without causing any harm.

That tickles, Monster!