Wednesday, August 25, 2010


I’ve been working out like a fiend these last few days and now I hurt all over for my efforts. I really and truly and honestly need to get back into Yoga. It’s really the best thing you can do for your body short of sex. It can be argued, of course, that Yoga is better for you than sex, but either I haven’t had the right Yoga instructor or you’re doing something wrong.
Be that as it may, I dreamed last night my arm didn’t work. It does work, but it hurts like hell because when I got to the Y I take those exercise classes most guys wouldn’t be caught dead in, and I find up over doing it because the women in there who are half my age are also some of those individuals who do things like marathons and triathlons, and wild boar hunting with Ginzu knives.  Honestly, there was a woman named Kirsten who rolled her ankle in the most gruesome manner while teaching a step class but she stopped long enough to gnaw it off, continue the class, and then she stuck it back on with super glue before the next class started.  They had another instructor that taught a class while six months pregnant and she almost killed some people in the class who were determined to keep up with her or die trying. One of the women who teaches a variety of torture techniques just finished a triathlon and she was back today swearing she was not training for the next one, but she left a trail of bodies in the Spin closet.
There are several subtle signs I need to start working out more. The ten pounds I gained was one of the most subtle. My clothes shrinking was another. I can always tell I’m not working out when I start eating junk food. For some reason I crave junk food when I am not working out but won’t touch it when I’ve got a routine.  I tend to be bitchy when I haven’t been working out on a regular basis. Most men won’t lay claim to being bitchy. Men are irritable, brooding, or edgy. The sad truth is men can be as bitchy as most women and some men are a lot more bitchy than most bitchy women. The second President Bush when he gave his famous “I’m The Decider” reply might as well popped a couple of Midol in front of television camera and got it over with.
I believe Dick Chaney was holding the president’s testicles in an undisclosed location, and it was beginning to get to him.

It’s a sign I’m bitchy when I talk about politics because there really isn’t any resolution in discussion about politics these days. I haven’t liked a president since Jefferson left office yet whenever I say something about one of the Bushes people accuse me of being some left leaning Eurotrash Americam hating gun burning Commie and when I bad mouth Obama people think I’m a right wing nut religious  freak out to burn the constitution, in favor of the Corporate Republic.  Actually, this is a more a function of the bitchiness of others, not mine, so fire up the Midol 20 MM machine gun and let’s see if we can get a decent discourse going. You might want to wait until I’m in a better mood.

The battery died on my MP3 player on the way to the Y and I checked it last night. I lied to me. Two bars means I have at least a few hours left, right? But right in the middle of the best live song ever played it shut off and I almost rammed a semi while I was trying to read the tiny text that said, “He’s dead Jim”.  Do you feel like I do? I sure hope not. But it did irritate me the truck got real close to me just because I wasn’t paying attention and weaved towards his lane. Irritated at me, not him; I’m bitchy not suicidal.
Traffic is the best indication of my mood, unless there is a nude woman within breathing distance of me. When traffic bothers me I know it’s going to be a long day. Ellis Drive is a side street I use to get away from the nightmare that is the intersection of Saint Augustine and Gornto Road in Valdosta.  Gornto Road doesn’t irritate me but the way the powers-that-be have striped the roads make it seem like three days pass before you can turn left onto Gornto, hence the side road.

Can I be bitchy about something that doesn’t matter at all, as a digression?

If you look up Gornto Road in Valdosta, right where it intersects with Jim Jones, er, Jerry Jones Road, at the LSD temple, damn, I mean the LDS temple, Jerry Jones goes one way and turns into, without stopping, Melody Lane. Just poof, and it’s renamed. Worse, Melody Jones Lane then remarries and it’s Melody Jones Lankford Drive before it dead ends into … Saint Augustine.

Talk about an asphalt metaphor for not getting married more than three times…..

But wait! There’s more!

In the worst case of Multiple Personality Disorder a road can have, going the other way Jerry Jones turns into Eager Road. Eager for a name change? Then once again, it changes into Northside Drive before it finally dead ends into Jaycee Shack Road.

One road, seven names.

Anyway, waiting for the three miles long of traffic coming down Saint Augustine, I plan to turn left on Ellis but there’s a car there with pointers driving. Not the dogs, the people who sit and point at places they may, or may not turn into. They’ve turned into a roadblock, so when an opening occurs I go underneath and they freak out when I turn beside them. When I get to the end of Ellis I look back and they’re still stuck.

Two hours working out and now I’m too tired to care.

Take Care,

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