Kidding about the spontaneous genitalia, but something shocking did happen. I found out that Squiggy runs 10 miles a day. Squiggy, the heavy-drinking, Marlboro-smoking, perpetually-partying K-Town machine. In fact he ran a marathon last year. Then he went and informed me the day after one of our recent Saturday night rampages, our friend Easy woke up the next morning and finished a triathlon, finishing ahead of his coworkers who also competed.
At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised if Squiggy had pulled off his face to reveal that he and Easy were robots sent from the planet Xantar to investigate human frailties. Then one of them fell in love with a fire hydrant, not realizing that the other had feelings for the hydrant too. Comedy ensues.
It would’ve been better for me if they actually were androids, because then I’d feel less guilty about not having been to the gym since January. That’s when my gym changed ownership, and I decided to search for another gym in the West LA area. But I never found the time, being completely occupied with eating corndogs and all. Consequently my ass has jumped to 190 pounds, which is actually fine for my height. However, ‘ass’ is misleading because methinks those eight extra pounds went straight to my already big head.
Now I’ve really gotta join a new gym soon before my noggin actually starts to alter the earth’s orbit, bringing about another ice age. Just as soon as I finish this Guinness.
Well, as promised in the last entry, I’ve posted some photos from Saturday night. Not pretty. Not pretty at all. To see how big a difference those eight extra pounds made, this a photo of me singing at a noraebang before I gained weight…
… And this is me now. See the difference? Actually my goal at the time was to achieve maximum gay-ness while singing “Like A Virgin.” Mission accomplished. Good Lord, I don’t know what’s worse: my singing face or my orgasm face. Or if they’re one and the same.
Here a friend whispers to me that my buddy Jill had the audacity to laugh at my vocal talent. My response is to try to look like a sad monkey.
I exact my revenge Shakespeare-style and smash Jill’s face into a plate of duk-boki, just as Othello did to Iago. Boo-Yah! That’ll teach you to mock my oral skills, woman. Hmmm, didn’t quite sound right.
Later I feel a bit of remorse for my actions, and when I’m feeling penitent I tend to put my hand in the air and wave it like I just don’t care.
I don’t have a funny line for the toothpick guy.