Tidbits of My Spectacular Life

  1.  Eating bacon definitely causes butt cancer.
  2.  My dad caught our lawn chairs in a compromising position –

20151026_102700 (2)

3.  This seems like a sensible and hilarious solution.  I mean, nothing can go wrong with this one.  Nothing went awry with the one child policy.  Nothing. At. All.  –

Too Many Men? Share the Wives

A shortage raises the price of goods, in this case, women, he explained. Rich men can afford them, but poor men are priced out. This can be solved by having two men share the same woman….

“Men are publicly debating how to allocate women, as though women were commodities like houses or cars, in order to realize some grand political ideal originating from either the patriarchal left or the patriarchal right,” Zheng Churan, one of five women’s rights activists detained in March while campaigning, wrote in an essay for a WeChat group called Groundbreaking. “Behind the imbalanced sex ratio of 30 million bachelors lie 30 million baby girls who died due to sex discrimination. But somehow everyone’s still crying that some men can’t find wives.”

“Why Don’t I, Yet, Have a Miniature Elephant in My Vast Menagerie?”

As I was listening  to Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park during my commute through eternal Houston traffic this morning, a thought occurred to me.  Why don’t I, yet, have a miniature elephant  – a pygmy elephant – in my very own personal menagerie?  You see I live in the suburbs of West Houston.  It’s cheap.  It also allows me the luxury of collecting various biological specimen, such as a Labrador Retriever mix, a chihuahua, a crotchety ancient miniature pinscher, a big siamese cat, a comet goldfish, an oranda goldfish, and a male human.   To this impressive menagerie, I’m most eager to add a miniature elephant. So why don’t I yet have one?

This question is vexing, because first, according to Jurassic Park, they should be on the market by now.  Second, I want one now.  Third, I should have my very own tiny elephant, right now, this very moment, grazing in the grassy patch of Katy Prairie (not the singer, ’cause that would be weird) that makes up my backyard.

My guy would certainly be a dusty gray.  He would have wrinkly, chubby knees just like the big guys in Africa and South Asia.  He would also have a powerful tusk.  Except, he would be tiny and he would be named Hercules.

I’m thinking that Hercules should be the size of a small dog.  The right size, to my imagining, would be about the size of my chihuahua.  Pachuco weighs roughly six pounds. Just kidding that little chunker is usually a good 7.5 pounds.   Sadly, like his mistress, his weight fluctuates depending on bread consumption and blissful denial.

But, then again, maybe Hercules shouldn’t be that small.  I mean, I definitely want Hercules to be pint sized.  I want to be able to pick him up and cuddle him and whisper sweet nothings into his great, floppy, elephant ears.  I don’t want him to be so tiny, though, that he falls prey to a marauding hawk.  I can just see him.  Hercules trumpeting with panic as he is hoisted into the cloudy sky.  Poor Hercules.

So Hercules cannot be as small as Chuco.  Perhaps Ol’ Herc should be the size of a standard dachshund.  That’s better.  That way he would be too big for a hawk to pick up, but small enough so that his poops would be manageable.

So this brings me to my main point, what the hell geneticists?!  Have you been so emasculated by anti-GMO and green activists that you are no longer actively working on creating my Hercules?  It’s been 20 years, I think, since Jurassic Park was published.  Remember? The movie came out in 1993.  I was 13 years old people!  It’s 2015 now, and nope, no tiny elephant in sight.

Oh Noes! GMO elephants!  I mean once I read this science fiction story where the solution to overpopulation was to shrink the size of the human race so that we’d consume less, thereby, allowing for more people.  How ingenious is that?  So, by that same token, sort of, can’t we save the elephants by making them smaller and selling them to sad sacks like me?  This is the perfect solution.  A win-win, if you will.  The gentrified neighborhoods of Brooklyn and Austin can soon be teaming, not just with Starbucks sipping yuppies, but also with their pet miniature elephants.  Miniature elephants, who will be trumpeting with joyful exultation at being taken for a walk!  I want this future.

Day – I suck

I really do suck for a lot of reasons, but mostly because I get sick a lot.  So, unfortunately and because I suck (obviously), I didn’t get to finish my marathon.  At mile 22 I tripped and fell.  I hit my head.  I was so disoriented and panicky that I decided not to go on.  Instead I went to the medical tent.  Then I was sick with the most awful cold or flu or something for the next three weeks.  This is the first week since the beginning of February that I’ve felt okay.  The whole thing is a major bummer.

So since I was on a very limited workout schedule in February, I’ve decided to forgo the 70.3 in Galveston.  Instead I’m giong to participate in an Olympic distance in Marble Falls, Texas in April.  I’ve also committed to running 13 miles in Lubbock with a 70.3 relay group.  Right now, I’m seriously considering signing up for the 70.3 in Arizona.

Oh yeh, and no Cozumel for me!  Instead, I’ll be volunteering at Ironman Arizona so I can register for Ironman 2016.  I think I need one more year to get my shit together – base wise and time wise – before I endeavor toward a full-blast Ironman.

Why is She So Smug when She Should be Eating Them?

So I’m sitting here innocently watching a movie called Snowpiercer.  Here’s my main problem with this movie – a distinct lack of cannibalism.  I mean these people are –

1. On a train;

2. Sixteen (16) years after the start of an ice age, AND

they aren’t eating people!

I mean what the fuck people.  What the fuck?!  There’s an ice age.  It’s so horrible that about 500 people from all over the world scrambled on to a train in 2014 to escape the horrible, horrible, cold outside.  It’s like 2031 now, and these people are EATING BUGS! BUGS!  No, they aren’t eating the most logical protein source available – sweet, sweet baby flesh.  No. They are partaking in bugs!

AND what’s more, the poor people (the people at the back who are staging a revolt for some stupid reason, most likely because they aren’t getting enough baby protein), are totally and completely PISSED OFF; I mean PISSED OFF, by the astonishing revelation that their food was made of BUGS!

Again, these people are living on a train during an ICE AGE!

I’m sorry I don’t care about the dumb greenhouse.  Most likely, you’d still be eating bugs because aquariums and greenhouses would probably not survive all the hustle and jostle of a train in an ICE AGE.  But, why not eat people?

Human flesh has a lot of nutrients.  Just don’t eat the brains, because you can get a nasty prion disease.  Those are just  awful.

Let me be honest with you, if I were boss of that improbable ICE AGE traveling train I’d have instituted a people eating policy post haste.  First, the old people would be on the menus.  Then surplus babies.  REMEMBER, YOU ARE ON A TRAIN IN AN ICE AGE.  THERE IS NO OTHER HOPE FOR YOU.  YOU TRAVEL ON THIS TRAIN OR DIE.  Hello! Babie eating.  The third thing I would institute is eating big people – so anyone over 5’8 or over 200Lbs would be food.  Sorry, that’s how it goes when you are on a train during an ice age.

And finally, there is no way in all hell that I would institute and maintain a class system on this train UNLESS we are eating the poor people.  Come on! Even if you want the poor people’s babies, why would you spend resources to feed the adults?  Or especially to feed the male adults?  Fuck that.  Eat those motherfuckers.

Sir Jasper Montgomery of the Yorkshire Montgomerys Goes On An Adventure

Damn it, Sir Montgomery!  You had to go there.  You couldn’t leave well enough alone.  No, you had to insert yourself into a matter, which, ultimately, you could not handle.

Grant it, it did all end well.  You were rescued, bathed, fed, and well-cared for.  But, did you ever think, for a second about the heartache that your absence caused?  Oh yes, Sir Montgomery, there were tears!  Tears flowed, freely and with anguish.  There were lamentations of loss and grief.

Oh and what else? The neighborhood was thoroughly scoured.  Brigades of humanity were informed of your disappearance.  Man hours were spent on the search for you, Sir Jasper Montgomery.

Ah, yet, this was an adventure for you after all.  This was a little break from your otherwise humdrum and regimented life.  A life of leisure, yes, but also a life of predictability.  Given your youth among the sheep and hills of Yorkshire, I am want to understand your desire for adventure.  But, Sir Montgomery, isn’t your youthful indiscretion the very reason you were cast out of Yorkshire?

An adventure.  Oh yes, to be sure, it was but a jaunt around the trails and wilds of Katy, Texas.  What could possibly go wrong?  Death? Destruction? Fleas?

No matter, all is well.  But, Sir Montgomery, what happened to your companion?  What, pray tell, happened to that golden maned chap who was, no doubt, the instigator in all this madness?  Did you even catch his name? Oh dear, what possessed you to run off with that rough and abrupt caller?  His good looks?  His unbridled enthusiasm?  Where you attempting to impress Miss. Chase, per chance?

There you go, Sir Montgomery, blaming others.  You say that it was Miss Chase all along.  That she, upon spying the blond mane of the caller, scampered exuberantly outside and attempted to “head butt” (your words) her way out of the fence.  I ask you, Sir Montgomery, as your friend, how likely is that?

You, too, were curious about the blond maned caller.  I heard him too.  To be sure, his exclamations had be alarming.  But that’s what they were – alarming.  To you however, they were sweet nothings.  I cannot imagine the honey tinged words that he used to induce you to abandon all caution and good sense and leave the safety of our humble abode.

But leave, you did Sir Montgomery.  You, no doubt, emerged from behind the loose board in a triumph, excited by the adventure to come.  Like a siren the blond haired caller had lured you.  Like a silly fool, you obliged him.

What came next was shear and utter folly.  You and he rushing about the trails and wilds like mad beasts.  To and fro.  To and fro with not a care in the world.  Madness!

Until darkness began to descend, that is, and then what seemed like a holiday jaunt became more sinister.  The lights of the mechanical beasts and the roar of their ungodly engines became frightening.  You no longer felt buoyed by the wonder of the world outside your home.  There were suddenly dangers everywhere. Monuments and artifacts became unfamiliar.  As you and your companion drew further and further away from home the scents of urine and feces became less familiar and, as a result, less comforting. Your excitement began to wane.

You found yourself flummoxed and afraid.  You suddenly felt tired.  It was getting on towards dinner time.  Ah, but your companion, that mangy beast, he urged you to continue on.  Your doubts, however, began to grow. You began to look about for a way to leave that vile siren.  It would be fun, the beast had said.  And, it had been fun, but that feeling had been eroded by hunger and worry.

Alas, you and the vile caller, came upon a creek that rushed with muddy waters.  In your despair, you looked up to see your savior – a woman.  A stranger, to be sure, but a friendly one.  She beckoned you toward her. Briefly, you glanced at your companion.  He had no use for a human stranger.  But you did.

And so you are home now.  Back from your fleeting adventure.  Back to the comfort of a good, stinky blanket.  Welcome back, good Sir.

Your Ever Lasting Butt Buddy,

Chuco

Day 10 – Groping in Public

Regardless of my feelings about rape (I’m against it). Regardless about my feelings about CNN (mixed, with a sprinkling of disgust). I can honestly say that the spectacle of six “women of age” raising their hands in response to very serious questioning by Don Lemon and his co-hostess about if Bill Cosby had ever drugged their drinks, makes me cringe. I actually cringed while plodding along on the treadmill.

I was listening to a Filter song of some sort, but the gym’s tv sets have closed captioning so I was literally, not figuratively, but literally forced to watch this stupid show – “Cosby’s accusers meet face to face for the First Time.” This is all well and good, but also, super cringe-worthy. I know these ladies volunteered for the show and they want their television justice, but watching all these elderly former models and actresses describe their encounters with Mr. Cosby just made me really annoyed.  The whole thing just smacked of exploitation.  But if like ten women “of age” are there, are they really being exploited?  I don’t know.

I do know that my run was painful simply because I had to watch parts of this show.  I had  to listen (okay, read) to such gems as “In the 70s we called it groping, now we call it sexual assault.”  Really?  Because I would have thought that someone grabbing your breasts in public, would have always been a little rapey.  My big question is, what good is this going to do for anyone, CNN?

–STATISTICS–

Workout  – 50 minute jog on the dreadmill

Servers – One chassis that whose power supply didn’t work; one server with a failed hard drive in an array of 4.   All vintage 2003 hardware.

Day 8 – Jeff Goldblum can have my Baby

Yesterday, I was watching Independence Day for like the trillionth time.  When Jeff Goldblum swaggered sexily out of the alien’s ship after kicking ass, I told my sister, who had innocently wandered in, “That’s the money shot.  Jeff Goldblum can have my baby.”  Jeff Goldblum – circa Jurassic Park and Independence Day, but NOT, not, not The Fly – can totally have my baby.  I mean, like, if Jeff Goldblum showed up at my doorstep and offered me his penis – circa Jurassic Park and Independence Day, but NOT, not, not The Fly – I’d take it.  And like I don’t mean he’d have to offer his penis to my 13 year old self, because that would be all pedo-bear.  He can very well offer it to myself now, the 34 year old self.

–Statistics–

Workouts

Swimming – 2750 yards

Jogging – 55 minute with mile “fast*” intervals

*HAH!

 

Day 6 – Can you DIG IT?!

Almost every year a spirited debate about the use of headphones (to listen to music or whatever) pops up on Slowtwitch.  What usually happens is that some intrepid triathlon noob shows up and innocently queries about headphone use during the run portion of the triathlon.  Said noob is usually a runner and in running competitions/events, except for like elite or collegiate type races -think 800m, headphone use is usually allowed.  In triathlon, headphone use is not allowed.  So the noob is usually confused. Makes sense, right?

Oh but each time such a question is posed, the thread erupts into a lively discussion about the pros and cons of wearing headphones during running, not during the running portion of the triathlon, no…during running.  Like on you own or in a group.  But like for training or recreationally.  Just, you know, jogging along, minding your own business.   Also, every fucking time, the same worn pros and cons are trotted it out.  Each argument is purely based the poster’s own preferences, of course, and they state their preference as such – you know, theirs.

But then come the assholes.  You know, the fledgling napoleons who think that their preference is the best preference and, thus, must be adhered to by all others in society.   So some examples –

  1. The hippies – “No one should ever listen to music while they run.  Every runner should be at one with nature.  Listen to the warbling of the tit, the rustle of that old weeping willow on Old Lady Fitchner’s lawn, the peeing of the fawns as they trample through your rosebushes.”
  2. Mr. Safety  – “You will, undoubtedly, get hit by a Mack truck if you run with headphones on.  Leave no doubt, your carcass – bones, blood, and bile – will be strewn across the blacktop for the carrion to light upon during their forays across the sky.”
  3. The philosophers – “You need, need, need to run without headphones, because you need to think deep thoughts about universe.  You need to feel at one with your body.  You need to listen to your steps, hear the blood as it rushes throughout your veins to nourish your body with GU and gatorade, and remember that one day, even your body will return to the Earth.”
  4. Officer KissmyAss – “Listening to music gives you an unfair advantage.  It helps your cadence. It makes you go faster.”

Well no shit Officer, that’s exactly why I like to listen to music when I jog.  But seriously, I’m so fucking slow that it doesn’t matter.  Seriously, please don’t shoot me. I know I’m brown, but calm the fuck down.

So anyways, I like to listen to three types of media when I jog – audiobooks, podcasts, and/or music.  What I listen to depends on how long my run is and where I am running.  For example, today I jogged on a treadmill for two fucking hours.  During those hours, you know what I “watched” on the gym’s t.v.?  CNN.  You know what headline, that old, esteemed laurel of television news was blasting?  “Source:Terrror Cells Activated”  Seriously, CNN? You suck suck huge ass donkey balls.  just HUGE.  More on that later.

Anyhow, because it was incredibly boring, I listened to music the whole time.   If  I had jogged outside, I would have listened to a book or podcast for one hour and then music for the second hour, because you know, negative split.  Here’s some of the music that’s on my play list –

–Statistics –

Workout

Jogging – 2 hours on treadmill

Swimming – 1600 yards

Food

Yeh…I’m thinking about what to do for this one.