Rage against the manatee

As I lay there, slowly being crushed to death, I pondered the burning questions:

“Is this how it feels to die on the surface of Jupiter? What does it say for Brazilian jiu-jitsu when they give black belts to 400-lb teletubbies? To what depths of degradation have I sunk?”

The author and the finisher of these ruminations sat comfortably on my chest, his belly fat engulfing my face. I would have vomited, except for the airtight blubber mask suffocating me.


When Bill first brought him onto the mat, I took it for a joke. At 6’ 4”, he must have weighed 400 lbs if he weighed 1. Our instructor introduced him as his good friend Steve, and a talented Jiu-Jitsu black belt. Say what? I could have sworn that you said black belt? Sorry, I was busy enjoying the image of a beleaguered manatee, swimming slowly beneath a yacht.

The party really started when Steve, starting with the highest ranks, began throwing the students around like ninepins and generally wreaking havoc on the mat. This porker had moves! He moved with the lithe abandon of a Fantasia elephant, and the speed of Sally Struthers chasing the world’s last doughnut.

In fear and trembling I took my turn, and was thrown onto my back within 10 seconds. As Steve crushed me, I lay there completely helpless, and all my Herculean efforts to escape were about as useful as a cock-flavored lollipop.
Did I have it all wrong? Would the obese inherit the earth? I wondered bitterly how many babies he could eat in a sitting as I spat out his sweaty paunch hair. Mercifully, a clock choke cut my suffering short.

I still don’t know how I feel about the morbidly obese doing martial arts. On the one hand, Steve’s infinite mass gave him a supermassive advantage. On the other, he nearly had an aneurysm after 5 minutes of fighting. Chances are if I could have survived sans oxygen for a few more minutes, I would have won when he died of congestive heart failure.

The moral of this story? There is nothing that a tube of toothpaste, half a bottle of wine and a 45 minute shower can't cure.

I guess you'll do

Hey, you. Some girl. It's me, some guy. I guess we might as well have a life together. I'm in my mid-to-late 20's, you're 2 years younger. We're at about the same level of attractiveness, and we have comparable educations. You need to mate, and will probably do about as well as anyone else. Let's begin this typical courtship process, shall we? I guess we should go to some movies, and maybe a concert or two. Let's go camping. While camping, let's take some pictures of us to hang on our wall to remind us of the time we went camping. Perhaps we'll get married a year and a half after I propose. Our wedding will be the highlight of your life, as you will be the center of the universe for about 2 weeks. After the wedding, you'll take a year to reflect upon the wedding. Soon, everyone will tire of your wedding talk and you'll no longer be the center of attention. It's time for us to buy a house so you'll have something new to talk about. We'll decide that we should have children, and we'll take all the fun out of sex by scheduling our intimacy around your ovulation cycle. We will conceive, and you will give birth, just as billions have done before you. Our children will be adequate, but not spectacular. I'll want them to be athletes but they'll lack the size and skill. You'll want them to be creative but they'll lack the talent and drive....

...But I digress. What I meant to say is that I'm excited for our first date, and I'll pick you up at 8.

Startlingly Accurate

Whatever he's doing, they don't like it.

When in Babel....

I barely recognized this dusty old corner of the web when I logged in the other day. The burning question in my mind is whether or not bloggers are essentially narcissists and attention whores. I've concluded that while many bloggers blog purely to feed their outrageously bloated egos, others actually provide relevant and interesting information to their family and friends.
As you have surely guessed, I am not one of the latter. I blog only for the orgasmic rush I feel when I am notified that someone commented on my blog. Your blog comments are like pure heroin injected directly into my carotid. As any good narcissist will tell you, there is nothing quite so worth-affirming as a turgid, throbbing heap of comments praising you for your latest trivial achievement, mind-numbingly inane post, or infinitely asinine fecal nugget of "wisdom". So, dear nonexistent reader, keep them coming. Your sweet sweet comments light up my brain's reward and pleasure center like the Fourth of July.

In other news...
I think my blogging hiatus is over. I don't think I can match Amber's blistering blogging pace, but I'll try to post every now and then. It keeps the brain active and helps break out of existential funks. Incidentally, so do cattle prods.
I took up Jiu-Jitsu about 4 months ago. Why? Well obviously because I enjoy being wrapped up in the slippery, pungent embrace of another sweating man. Silly question. It's actually a fantastic workout, as every training session takes me within 1/2 dozen beats of heart failure. I also find the ability to physically dominate others very useful. It takes all the annoying small talk and expense out of the dating scene. No longer is it necessary to take a girl to dinner and charm my way into her good graces; I simply throw her to the ground with Seoi-nage, and place her in a compromising and pleasurable hold such as a triangle choke as I have my way with her. I plan on competing at the Pan-American tournament in August, so I'm going to train every day, and post video of my glorious victory as white belt heavyweight champion (or not). Either way, it should be amusing.