F*ck My Ass

Before I start today, Lbluca77 has graciously submitted a movie review of "Step Brothers" which is now posted over on Moog's Movie Reviews.

She wants me.

On a related note:

Who doesn't?

Alright...alright...

Put your hands down.

Now...onward and upward!

(that's what she said)

*******************

How Human Resources doesn't have a hotline to my desk by now, I have no idea.

Let me explain.

I work out.

I work out five days a week.

I'm like a tiny, balding Adonis, but without the fig leaf covering my junk.

I tried the fig leaf thing once, but the people in the gym frowned upon it.

Men can be jealous bitches.


It also gave me a wicked ball rash. On the bright side, my crabs ran away after all the itching.

You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have the facts of life.

Tooty had big tits.

But I've digressed.


Wednesday in the gym, for me, is "leg day."

When I was a young fat shit, Wednesday was "Prince Spaghetti Day."

I bet Anthony got some serious WOP ass in his day.

I think that's a local reference.

If so, I'm not explaining it. God invented Google for a reason, you lazy pricks.

Last Wednesday, I did heavy squats.

This differs from Rosie O'Donnell's 'heavy squats'...

...which make me want to throw up a little when I picture it.


As a result of these squats...

...and not because of the blackout the night before...

...my ASS WAS FUCKING KILLING ME.

When you have 'workout ass,' things that you normally take for granted get difficult.

Things like:

1) Walking
2) Sitting
3) Going poo

Going poo really sucks with 'workout ass,' because as I'm sitting on the shitter, I end up saying stuff like:

"Ow...jeez."

"Oh..man...that fucking hurts."

"Oh...oh, my ass!"

Sometimes, I may wimper.

This tends to confuse and/or panic the guy in the next stall.


Regardless, I was coming back up the stairs into my work area with my friend, Kristin, and was telling her how sore I was.

The three flights of stairs we had to climb up weren't helping. My glutes...taut, muscular and stunning...were now fucking screaming at me to stop moving.

As we walked into the lab, I exclaimed:

"Fuck, my ass!"

It was at this EXACT moment, that three other people came from around the corner just in front of me.

Awesome.

My eyes met with the people turning the corner...

...all of them wondering who just yelled out:

"Fuck, my ass."

Yep.

'Twas me.

How you doin'?

"Fuck, my ass."

Nice.

Hold on...my hotline is ringing.

Just curious:

Anyone out there hiring?

Runaway Commando Junk

Long one today.

(that's what she said)

What?

I was a regular work of art.

However, instead of it being “oil on canvas,” it was more like “penis on denim.”

Let me explain.

My first week back to work after my two week holiday ‘vacation’ was also my first day back in the gym.

On a side note, I’ve put ‘vacation’ in quotes there because spending copious amounts of time at home with your 5 and 8 year old kids is more like being waterboarded.

Now, I’m a fan of torturing people (hello? I’m a Republican) so when I say it was "like being waterboarded" I mean it was "like being waterboarded AND having to listen to all those fucking whiny bitchfuck liberals next to me complaining about it."

Seriously.

I’m being fucking tortured here so these nice government people here may potentially get some useful information out.

So shut. The fuck. Up.

Thank you.


I believe I’ve digressed.

Oh yeah – the gym.

So, it’s my first day back in the gym and I’m sweating my balls off.

Literally.

Listen, when you shave your pubes off things tend to just move around there all willy nilly without the benefit of the added friction.

It’s like those shiny "ben-wa" balls but without the fancy tattoos on them.

Unfortunately, for me it’s also unlike the "ben-wa" balls, too, because I’m the only one who plays with them.

This shit stresses me out.


After the guy on the treadmill allowed me to look under his feet for my right nut (see? I WAS sweating my balls off), I hit the shower.

(queue gay porn music…not that I know what that sounds like or anything…

...you know…

...forget these last two lines altogether)

I open my gym bag to get dressed and pull out…

…socks.

Just socks.

No underwear.

Me: “Oh, shit.”

Guy next to me: “Lose another nut?”

You see...

I’m a boxer-brief guy.

I like wearing underwear.

Wearing underwear makes me feel like I’m wearing underwear.

I like this feeling.

But today?

No underwear.

Awfuck.


I see two options to go with here:

1) Go commando

Yep…put on the jeans…no underwear.

Just me and a small sliver of Levi’s separating Mr. Wiggly from modern society.

I don’t like this option one little bit.

I don’t like this option because I’m wearing button-fly jeans.

Going commando in button-fly jeans increases the odds that you’ll unwittingly be sitting there with the head of your dick poking out of one of the spaces between the buttons.

Dick (shielding his eye from the sun): “Wow! There’s a great big world out here!”

* dick makes a run for it while screaming ‘FREEDOM!’

Guy next to me: “Dude. Your junk is really fucked up.”


If I had a decent sized dick, I’d have no problem with the probability of my Mr. Wiggly breaking free.

However, for me there is the distinct possibility that my dick could actually pop out one of the fucking button holes.

Stupid small dick.


So, I look at option #2:

2) Put on my old underwear

I glance down at my old underwear.

My underwear has just undergone a one-hour workout.

It’s not pretty.

You see, although I’m in pretty good shape, I sweat a lot.

I’m sweating as I’m typing this. It’s the fucking space bar that wears me out…it should be shorter. Less effort.

Cardio sucks.


As such, my underwear looks like the tattered remains of a piece of clothing pulled from the wreck of the Titanic.

Film THAT, James Cameron!

(Kate Winslet: call me)


Putting this torn, damp and decrepit piece of cloth on would:

(a) not only feel pretty fucking disgusting but..

(b) also turn my jeans into ‘dirty jeans.’

Dirty jeans are a rare occurrence in a man’s world.

According to the Man Rules, jeans are not considered dirty and can be worn multiple days in a row as long as you don’t:

1) Shit in them

2) Play mud football in them (although, this rule varies depending on the wetness of the mud and if the mud stains can be wiped off when they dry)

3) Shit in them while playing mud football (FYI – the other players will tease you)

4) Get ass sweat on them


I wasn’t planning on shitting myself or playing mud football or any combination therein…

…but I surely would have transferred my copious ass sweat from my Titanic-wreck briefs to my jeans and potentially caused BOTH an ass-sweat stain on my sculpted buttocks as well as made a 5 foot radius around me smell like a 24-hour fat person all-anal gang bang.

* reminder to myself to return that video

I went with option 1.

So, I sit here typing with my tired little pecker shielded from the cold, cruel world by a fraction of an inch of denim.

It feels yucky. I don’t like it.

On the bright side, I’ve noticed that my nuts aren’t sticking together right now.

Hold on…hold on…

That’s because one of them made a break for it.

Stupid runaway junk.

This is totally gonna freak the guy next to me out again.

An Open Letter to Floyd (the old guy at the gym)

Dear Floyd,

You may not know me personally, but I know you.

You see, I'm one of the young whippersnappers who has the sheer audacity to come into the gym at the wee hour of 5:30 a.m....

I don't enjoy it either.

Old people freak me out.

...and, for some reason...

...you're ALL in my gym at this wee hour of the morning.

It's like I've stumbled upon a reunion with the cast of "Cocoon."


Just for sh*ts, I'm going to come in one day dressed as the Grim Reaper just to f*ck with you.

...good times...good times...


Now..on to why I'm in Hell:

#1) I don't enjoy the fact that when I walk into the locker room, it smells like Vick's Vapo-Rub.

What makes this worse, is that the locker room is right below the kitchen.

So it smells like Vapo-Rub and bacon.

Baco-Rub.

Nothing like a warm feeling of nausea to get you energized for your workout, Floyd.

I hate you.



#2: I don't enjoy walking through FOUR INCHES OF F*CKING BABY POWDER to get to my locker.

Seriously...are you leaking?

Do your sweat glands actually still function at age 92?

..or are you sopping up the residual pee that your Depends Undergarment failed to catch?

Great.

Now I smell pee.


#3: I don't enjoy continually hearing about your KP duty when you were in the Navy.

Sure, it was fun to listen to the first time...

...but you've said the same f*cking story to the same f*cking guy (also named Floyd) FIFTEEN F*CKING TIMES.

We get it.

You peeled potatoes on a boat.

MOVE THE F*CK ON TO ANOTHER STORY.


#4: I don't enjoy seeing your old dongle.

For the LOVE OF GOD...

...WRAP THAT GUY UP.

PLEASE.

It's HUGE.

It's disheartening.


I thought things actually shrunk when you got older.

If that's the case, based on my wiggly length and shrinkage-per-year statistics...

...I should be 114 years old.

I don't even want to imagine you in your youth. I'm guessing you were putting eyes out left and right with that thing.

...by the way...

Did you shave that thing...or did the hair just all fall out?

I mean, Floyd, it looks man-tastic.

(Looking forward to the day when manscaping becomes automatic)


#5: I don't enjoy the fact that you SIT DOWN EVERYWHERE NAKED.

You see, I'd LIKE to use that bench.

But now it has ass all over it.

Your ass.

Your OLD ass.

Your OLD, naked, wrinkly, talcum-powdered, Vapo-Rubbed, manscaped ass.

Motherf*cker....I'm running out of places to f*cking sit in here!


You see, a looooong time ago (you may have been alive and I just missed you retelling the story) Eli Whitney invented this thing called a "Cotton Gin."

This invention allowed cotton to be spun into fabric.

Eventually...this technology led to the creation of something called:

TOWELS.

Put on a f*cking TOWEL, Floyd.

I'M BEGGING YOU.

THEN you can sit your powdery flat ass down wherever you want.

...and so can I.


#6: I don't enjoy your 90-minute showers.

It's not like I'm paying for the water...don't get me wrong, here.

It's the fact that I'm in a shower room that slightly resembles the one in most prison films...

...and you were in the shower for ten minutes BEFORE I got there...

...and you're still in there ten minutes after I've left.

This is creepy, Floyd.

Man-in-shower-peeping-at-wigglies creepy.

a) Get in the shower.

b) Wash your giant dongle.

c) Don't forget to clean inside all your wrinkle flaps.

d) Get the f*ck out.

We're talking 5 minutes...TOPS.

Everything above that means that I think you're stalking out penises.

(Yeah...I'm looking...but it's just that yours is SO GODDAMN FANTASTIC for your age!)

Ahem...


Anyway...

Thanks for your cooperation, Floyd.

I'm going upstairs to have some bacon.

For some reason, I'm hungry.

I Should Have Had a V-8 (Gym Disaster #2)

Last week, I spun you a tale of penile deformity caused by the pursuit of bodily perfection.

Girls sympathized.

Guys grabbed their junk.

Transvestites were confused on how to feel.

(don't ask me how I know this)

This week, you get to hear what happened to me.

Story #2: The Drunken Head Divot

Drinking + Weights = festering head wound

Trust me.

Here we go...

Back when I was in college, I had decided one night to go to a party with my friend Chris.

When I say I "decided," I mean the decision went like this:

Chris: "Rod, want to go to a par.."

Me: "YES!"

(he looks up to finish his sentence, and finds me sitting in my warmed up car yelling, "HURRY THE F*CK UP!")

Man..I was a drunk.

...which explains my "Insert Penis Here" tattoo (complete with downward pointing arrow) on my lower back.

When you're passed out, your friends can be real assholes.


Anyway...

The kid having the party was a pretty competitive weightlifter.

His party happened to be held in the basement of his house, where all of his weight equipment was.

Now…guys, when they get drunk, tend to get competitive.

As such, a bunch of guys in the basement (including myself) decided to wander their obliterated asses over to the curl bar.


A group of girls followed to watch this display of testosterone and bravado...

(most likely to see which stupid prick would do the dumbest thing first)

I watched as guys lined up and grabbed this curl bar (that had a decent amount of weight on it), and start doing reps.

Cool.

My Drunken Brain: "I could probably do a bunch with that weight...impress the ladies."

Then another guy did a few.

Drunken Brain: "I could do more than that."

...another guy...

Drunken Brain: "I could go for some Doritos."

(I was starting to get the munchies here)

I kept watching…

...my turn was coming up.

Drunken Brain: "I like Knight Rider. I have to pee."


Then...it was MY turn.

Drunken Brain: "LOOK OUT, LADIES!!"

I stepped up.

I grabbed the curl bar...

...and (still thinking of Knight Rider and Doritos) started curling the weight.

This is cake.

Drunken Brain: "Mmm...cake."

CONCENTRATE!

No problem.

...at first.


Then...

...something wasn't right.

Drunken Brain: "...wha..huh…?"

My Spidey-Sense tingling, I looked down…

...trying to figure out why the left side of the bar felt heavier than the other.

Oh.

One side wasn’t heavier than the other…

..it was that there was no collar…

...no crimp….

…not a goddamn f*cking thing on the left side actually responsible for keeping the weights on the bar.


...as such...without the collar...

...the plates had started to migrate their way OFF of the left side bar…

I stood there…holding the bar in front of me...

...watching helplessly as the plates on the left side of the bar began their migration towards the end...

As the weights neared the end of the bar, a seesaw effect began to take place…


…the left side of the bar began to go lower as the weights reached the end…

...and...

...one by one...

...slide right the f*ck off.

*plop*

Uh-oh.

..off went a plate onto the floor…

...then another one...

*plop*

Now..a heavier plate made it’s way to the end…

The left side of the bar dipped lower…

...the right side, still fully populated with plates, went higher…


I began compensating to try to keep the bar even...

...pulling with all of my midget-might with my left arm to try to keep the bar level...

It wasn't working.

*plop*

Frozen in place, still drunk and confused, I watched the last plate reach the end of the bar…

...and drop...

...slow motion...

...to the ground...

*plop*

(the following five lines happened in the span of 1/10th of a second):

At this point, ALL of the weight was now on the right side of the bar…

About forty pounds on the right of me…

Not a single plate on the left.

The left end of the bar – now devoid of weight PLUS the force of my left arm still trying to lift it – swung violently upwards…

…towards my confused, drunken face...

...which had been watching this whole episode unfold…



…the bar struck me dead center -

*THUNK*

- in the middle of my forehead.

I dropped the bar...stumbled back...

...and dropped to the floor.

LOOK, MOMMY!! I SEE PIXIES!!!



Still hammered, I think I managed a "F*CK!!"

Ouch.

So...sauve…

…SO COOL.

Rodney, you're a stupid f*cksh*t.

The guys stood there and laughed.

CHRIST...I would have laughed. What a f*cking idiot.


Here's the cool part...

The girls watching were, like, “OH MY GOD…ARE YOU OKAY?!”

That's right...

...score one for the midgetman.

Because the ladies dig the weightlifters.

Even the dumb, drunk ones.

Like me.

But if you’re keeping score at home...

I was the one who did the first dumb thing.

Sometimes that happens.

More often than not.

Pinch an Inch - (Gym Disaster #1)

Shoulder exercise + flailing penis = PAIN.

Trust me on this one.

My shoulder injury is somewhat related to the fact that I enjoy going to the gym.

I love going to the gym.

It changed me from a standard pipsqueak...


AAARGHHH!!!

Holy sh*t.

...that was f*cking scary.

Barry.

Ok...

...so the gym changed me from a standard pipsqueak...


...to a pipsqueak with muscles.


(the chicks DO love their muscled short guys...

...at least, this is what I tell myself. Please, people, don't take this away from me.)

Anyway...

...going to the gym eventually helped f*ck up my shoulder...

...requiring me to get cortisone shots.

And I F*CKING HATE needles.

(not sure if you knew that...but I like to press the point)


Anyway...back to the gym...

When you’re just a hair over five feet tall, you’re not exactly “OH MY GOD” head turning material for the ladies.

Unless it’s like:

“Oh my God…he’s like a man…only SMALLER.”

As such, I’ve had to make up some ground by hitting the gym.

Hey…SOMETHING had to work.

When you can’t go up, go OUT.

Anyway, I’ve never really had any bad gym injury experiences except for one (that will be "Story #2").

But I’ve watched it happen to other people.

..and this…sometimes…

...can be fun to watch.


Here we go...

Story #1: Pinch an Inch

A few years ago, my buddy Rob and I were in the gym at work.


Anyway...

It was “shoulder” day.

One of these exercises we did was called “lateral raises.”

A lateral raise entails taking a dumbbell in each hand...

...raising them up and out to your sides...

...and then bringing them back down in front of you.

(end of personal training session - that will be $85, please)

Weight goes up.

Weight goes down.

Easy enough.





Rob was doing this with 20 pound dumbbells in each hand.

As such, Rob was kind of swinging the dumbbells up to his sides, then bringing them back down quickly.

Weight goes up.

*GRUNT*

Weight comes crashing down.

*CLANK!!*

Weight goes up.

*GRUNT*

Weight comes crashing down.

*CLANK!!*

You’d hear the “clank” of the iron as the weights met each other at the bottom of his movement…

...hands in front of his waist.


Yeah, you’d hear the “clank.”

Except…

...for the last time he did it.

You see…

Rob is a “commando” kind of guy.

He floats free.




No underwear.

His bits and pieces bobbling ever so happily in his sweatpants.

(On a side note, I've tried this myself but can't get my junk to stop sticking to my legs.

STUPID sticky balls! WHY WON'T YOU LET ME BE FREE?!?!?

So I don't try going commando anymore unless it's fishstick day in the cafeteria.

...you wouldn't understand.)

...but I digress...

So there's Rob...doing his lateral raises...

...wiggly and berries bouncing around in there like they're listening to the BackStreet Boys...


..and…during his last rep…well…

His..um.."member" happened to jump in the way of the weights.

Weights go up.

*GRUNT*

Weights come down.

As the weights came down in his hands…there was no “clank.”

Just a soft….

*thunk*

Yeah, guys.

*thunk*

Apparently, "thunk" is the sound of two dumbbells crashing into a penis…

40 pounds of force pinching a twig.

…and he dropped…

…like a ROCK.


(Right now…my male readers who are not eunichs are all crossing their legs in pain)

Rob: "ARRRGGGHHH!!!...OOOOOHHH!!"

(string of expletives and some gurgling noises follow)

This writhing, moaning and screaming continues for a few minutes...

...while I stand there...holding my own package in a fit of "Pain by Proxy."

...finally...he manages to catch his breath...

...he opens his sweatpants to view the carnage...

...and says to me:

"Oh MY GOD...LOOK AT THIS!"

Ummm...

...Rob...?

I don't want to look at it.

I don't want to look at ANY man's love-dangle and goo-cherries...

...let alone look at mangled ones.

But...

...friends being friends, sometimes you have to examine each others broken penis.

(this is what I tell myself to keep from having nightmares about it)


Folks...it was NOT PRETTY.

A road-rashed, splintered and bleeding penis is, by my account, NOT attractive.

I don't think he's done a lateral raise since.

That poor, poor bastard.

But at least he didn’t have to get a cortisone shot in his sack.

Actually...

I'd rather have the shot.