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January 2004

Total Gym 1500 review in which I fail to actually review the Total Gym 1500.
I have nice breasts. | Thursday, 01.29.04
I went out and bought this monstrosity last night because I'm a stupendous ball of fat and grease. Just getting the fucker into the house proved quite challenging without taking frequent, uninterrupted naps. The box supposedly weighed 70 pounds... yeah... on a planet in which 70 pounds equals like a hundred bajillion pounds, and exercise equipment is magnetically drawn to the ground like that Cape May magnet that's been on your fridge since 1904, before Cape May was even invented.

Here's a picture of me "pumping the irons" and "having a mild heartattack" on my Total Gym 1500.
Why did I choose the Total Gym 1500? Well, I was flipping channels one night, trying to find a program that would teach me how to combine the flavor of bacon with the smooth creaminess of pudding, and instead caught the tail end of a commercial starring everyone's favorite guy who does stuff: Chuck Norris. Yes... that Chuck Norris. He was all like, "Buy my product, Greasemonster!" and I was like, "I will, sir." And then Christie Brinkley was like, "I also think you're fat," and I replied, "Thank you; I loved you in National Lampoon's Vacation," and she was like, "You're too lumpy to enjoy the comedic stylings of Chevy Chase and myself." It was a strange evening, but in the end, I think I made the right choice, thanks to the imaginary conversation I had with the television for 4 and a half hours.

So I get the stupid thing up my winding staircase and leave it in the middle of my floor. My room isn't that small (considering my old room was a moldy cardboard box staple-gunned to the side of the house), but the Total Gym 1500 box made my room look mighty small. "No Assembly Required!" screamed the outside of the box. "Some assembly required!" admitted the contents of the box. "Where are you going to sleep at night?" asked my room sheepishly, as it was becoming apparent that most of my furniture would have to be burned for kindling in order to make room for the Total Fucking Stupid Gym 1500 Alpha II: Turbo Hyper Fighting Edition.

Now fully unearthed from its cardboard lair, the Total Gym 1500 was ready to shape my abs and ass into parts of the human body that actually resemble abs and asses as opposed to a bowl of mashed potatoes and loose meat that's been sitting out in the rain for the past 22 years. I sat on the seat, pulled the cords, and... nothing happened. I didn't read the directions very well, so I'm not really sure what was supposed to happen, but whatever it was, it didn't happen. I flexed my arms to see if they felt like Chuck Norris' yet. I picked a fight with some "street toughs" to see if I could kick ass like Chuck Norris yet. I even made a nametag for myself that read, "Hi! My name is Chuck Norris and even my beard is incredibly fit." Nothing. Though I did find myself enjoying "Walker: Texas Ranger" a little more than usual, but who doesn't enjoy a good hour or twelve of that masterpiece? I'll tell you who: flabby pinkos.

I suppose I'll read the directions tonight. Or maybe I'll just pack everything back into the box, bring it downstairs and shove it back in my car, as I got a killer workout from that alone last night. Or maybe, just maybe... I'll become one with the Total Gym 1500, and sculpt my body into a temple of discipline and endurance night after endless, steamy night. But most likely, I'll just play Metroid Prime for 20 hours straight, gently sobbing, pausing only to stuff my face with Double Stuffed Oreos dipped in margarine and sprinkled with NutraSweet Sugar Packets. I am on a diet, you know.

 
Is that a bone phone in your pocket or are you just an asshole?
HADOKEN | Wednesday, 01.21.04
I have a passion for retarded technology. Battery operated butter knives, solar scotch tape dispensers, rechargable toilet paper... I love it all. Imagine the erection I achieved upon viewing this snazzy headline: "Japanese Telecom unveils Bone Phone." Finally, I thought, someone else recognizes the endless possabilities associated with creating telecommunication devices out of human remains. This week it's the bone phone, next week we'll witness the unveiling of the Wax Fax, the world's first fax machine constructed entirely out of ear wax. Imagine my chagrin when I actually read the article about the bone phone...

Bone Phone says, "Ah, 1:45... time to inject dangerous toxins into your t-zone!"
Japanese telecom carriers, pioneers of internet-capable and picture-snapping handsets, have now come up with the world's first mobile phone that enables users to listen to calls inside their heads - by conducting sound through bone. The TS41 handset, manufactured by electronics firm Sanyo, was put on sale by the Tu-Ka mobile phone group this month, drawing healthy demand from customers who want to hear calls better in busy streets and other noisy places.
-- smh.com.au


It's not made out of bones. And from what I can see, it's not even made out of skin! Usually I can rely on Japan to produce an infinite supply of bat-shit insane products for my own personal amusement, and while the bone phone isn't quite as creepy as I originally hoped, it's still pretty fucking weird. You hold the gizmo between your eyebrows, plug your ears with your remaining fingers and -viola- instant voices in your head. And here's the real selling point... you only need four hands to use the phone properly: one to hold the phone, two to plug up your ears and one to drive your SUV into a crosswalk full of pesky civilians.

If the user holds the handset to the top of the head, the back of the head, cheekbone or jaw and plugs his or her left ear, the call will be heard internally on the left side.
-- smh.com.au


But, if the user holds the handset to his or her left arm, right foot or third testicle, the call will be heard by Melvin Tenzertucket of Bowling Green, Kentucky. Scientists are still trying to figure out why Melvin receives the extraneous phone calls in his brain, but they've deduced that the phenomenon is "scientifically hilarious x 21.5896664 with a line over that last four." Melvin couldn't be reached for comment, because he was too busy trying to unplug his brain to "make them fancy city voices stop their yappin'."

Now, already I have a problem with this ground-breaking new product. They say it was created to combat "busy streets and other noisy places." I was under the impression that everyone in Japan just ignored each other. Don't they all just file into their space-age subway cars, feed their virtual pets and obsess over American pop-culture? I always pictured city streets packed full of people, but completely silent aside from the barely audible blips and beeps of their SUPER HAPPY FUNTIME TAMOGOTCHI PINKU PHONES that transmit Happy Days reruns and endless rounds of Dance Dance Revolution directly into their brains and retinas. Sadly, I was mistaken. Enjoy your bone phones, Japan. Just don't turn that bitch on "vibrate," or you'll likely jackhammer a hole into your brain.

Tomohiro Abukawa, a 34-year-old hair stylist, said he liked the bone-conducting phone, noting railway stations and streets were often too noisy to talk.
-- smh.com.au


Yeah, guess what Tomohiro... you can't talk through your fucking bones yet, so your pinku buddy on the other end still gets an earful of you shouting over the noisy railway station.

Bone Phone User: Konichiwa, please speak at a normal volume. Although I am in the railway station, I can hear you perfectly thanks to my Bone Phone.
Non Bone Phone User: What?
Bone Phone User: I said, despite my current location, I can hear you perfectly. Let us speak about last night's episode of Humiliating Japanese Game Show Rape Contest.
Non Bone Phone User: Tomohiro, I told you to stop calling me from the railway station. There's no signal down there!
Bone Phone User: That is impossible. I am conducting a signal through my blood and hair thanks to my Bone Phone. Now if you will please excuse me, I am receiving a fax transmission from my buttocks. Shoryuken!

(editor's note: No Japenese men or women were harmed in the above dialogue. Many stereotypes were used purely for comedic purposes, and I don't think there's a show in Japan called "Humiliating Japanese Game Show Rape Contest." Also, I'm fairly sure no one in Japan walks around screaming Street Fighter moves, such as "Shoryuken," "Hadoken" or "Spinning Bird Kick" ... but it would be fucking cool if they did.)

 
That's a spicy bowel movement.
FIRE | Friday, 01.16.04
I like diving face-first into new interests. Fuck testing the waters a bit... I determine that I need something new to get into, do little to no research, and proclaim myself an expert within a day. So, when someone walks up to me on the street and says, "OMG, you like ______, too?" I can be like, "Of course I do, and I always have and I always will." It's my little way of lying to everyone foolish enough to get close to me. For example...

Last week I decided that I liked spicy foods. What prompted this sudden urge to kill my mouth with fire? A quick trip to Taco Bell...

Hi. I kill your insides. See you in Hell.
Drive-thru monster: DO YOU WANT MILD, HOT OR FIRE SAUCE WITH YOUR ORDER?
Rachel (to John): Do you want sauce?
John: Yes. I'd like them all, please. I'm going to mix them all in a bowl with a quart of gasoline, light it on fire and then gingerly dip my tacos into it, my INFERNO DIPPING SAUCE FROM HELL.
Rachel (to John): You don't like spicy foods.
John: Well I do now, sister! This is the new me, so strap yourself in for adventure and wacky hijinx!
Rachel (to John):Whatever. (to drive-thru monster): I'll take two of each, please.

So we get home and I'm fully prepared to conquer the demonic food-stuffs placed before me. I have a bottle of water, a backup bottle of water waiting in the fridge, and a backyard full of snow and raibies. I decide to skip right past the "mild" sauce, because if I wanted mild sauce, I'd just dip my taco in apple sauce and wear an Easter bonnet. Fuck that, I can handle the "hot" sauce. I squirt a little bit onto the paper, dip the taco and -- not bad. Got a little kick to it, but it didn't stop me from dousing my entire taco. So, round one is over and I have valiantly defeated the "hot" sauce. Now, onto "Fire." Psssh. Please. Same thing, I squirted a bit onto the paper, dipped my taco and -- again, not bad. Douse the taco, take another bite, and through some strage voodoo, my mouth is being stung by 1,000 flammable bees. "WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS FUCK?" I scream, but only flames and diced lettuce leave my mouth. I have to remove my skullie, as large beads of sweat start to appear on my forehead and nose.

Rachel: How is it?
John: ...
Rachel: John?
John: I just ate death.
Rachel: ?
John: It tasted like Rammstein.
Rachel: Are you ok?
John: I'm gonna go douse my head in the well. I'll be right back.

I could have sworn we had a well in the backyard. Anwyay, I learned a valuable lesson that day, passed down from my great great great Uncle Frankenstein: "FIRE, BAD!" I also learned that an exposed septic tank is not the same thing as a well, and I shouldn't drink water from it, no matter how delicious it looks. Regardless, I could now wear a t-shirt that reads "I enjoy some spicy foods" without knowing deep down that I was a filthy, godless liar.

Today at work, I scanned the Chinese takeout menu for something hot, and ordered some "Spicy Chicken." A small asterisk next to the meal indicated that "The shit is spicy, stupid, so don't come bitching to us when your jaw melts from your skull." I opened the styrofoam container, and damn it looked good. And now, a bite-by-bite play-by-play...

First bite: Why, this spicy chicken isn't spicy at all! I am the master of spice!
Second bite: Hmm... slightly hotter... nothing a little Diet Pepsi can't extinguish.
Third bite: Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.
Fourth bite: I'll just mix some rice into the equation and... FUCK THERE'S INVISIBLE SPICES ON THE RICE OH MY GOD WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS.
Fifth bite: I think my heart just stopped.

So, the verdict? Spicy food is fun because there's a good chance something internal will explode before the meal is completed. Also, everyone around you will take great interest in your meal, because you're a real man, and they're all eating pancakes and juice. But whatever you do, don't fan yourself, because you'll reveal your weakness. If there's a gang of spices shooting up your insides, just kill them with soda, water, or ice-cold knives. Take it from me, I've been into spicy foods for at least... oh... six days now.

 
Here is an update about teabags and cannons. I hope you love it.
Hi. | Friday, 01.09.04
A lot of fans ask me, they ask, "Hey Lacki, when you gonna update the site, bro?" Then they stand there, looking all stupid and miserable. Usually, I just slowly walk back into my house, lock the door, and figure out the safest way to lob a small explosive device onto my front porch. Everywhere I go... "What's up on the site, dood?" asks my stock broker. "We need an update, John," says the mayor. "John, when are you going to come over and whitewash my fence?" asks Grandma. Silly Grandma. She doesn't even have a fence, and God knows I don't have any whitewash, or a desire to pick some up from the International House of Ancient Painting Implements.

Poor Ruth.
If my life was a stove, I'd have to say that thismayhurt.com would be on the "back burner" if you will. Usually there are two back burners, so next to the aforementioned burner would be "proper grooming." The frontmost burner would house a tea pot, because I've discovered that drinking tea is a viable and delicious alternative to drinking coffee. Plus, I like whipping scolding hot teabags at my secretary, Ruth. Poor Ruth. I'll get up from my desk and be like, "Hey Ruth, you want some tea to go with your case of influenza?" and Ruth will be all like, "No, thank you" and I'll be all like, "Pssshhh... whatever, Ruth" and I pelt her with a scolding hot teabag. I like to keep Ruth on her toes, so I'll put "physically and mentally scarring my elderly secretary Ruth" on the front burner, next to the tea pot. It's good to keep your life organized. Also, it's good to brush your teeth every 3,000 miles and change your oil three times a day. It's funny because you weren't expecting it.

But life in the office isn't all about abusing the elderly. I mean, it's a huge part of it, but it's not like... you know, all of it. Sometimes I have to use the fax machine. Other times, I get to staple sheets of paper together and place them into manilla folders. But most of the time, I make ridiculous demands of people that I have absolutely no authority over. After spending three and a half hours in traffic on my way to work, I find using the word "motherfucker" helps relieve all sorts of stress in my neck and ball area.

Some guy: Hello?
Me: Yeah, it's John up on the fourth floor. What the fuck is going on over there?
Some guy: Excuse me?
Me: Man, I told you bumblefucks yesterday... I NEED PRODUCT NUMBER 72001-4 ON MY DESK AT 3:00 PM... What the fuck time is it over in RetardLand?
Some guy: Um... 3... 3:15?
Me: Goddamned right! Now you listen to me you motherfucker, I need that document sitting on my desk in 10 minutes or I will come down there and curb stomp your bitch-ass into oblivion! You hear me?
Some guy: I, I, I...
Me: 'I, I, I...' Do you have a problem with the way I run this department? You piece of shit, answer me!
Some guy: Who is this?
Me: Oh shit, is this Ruth?
Some guy: No, this is Mr. Thurston P. Bossperson, III.
Me: !

Here, shitty, anti-anti-aliased clip-art saves the day once again.
Today is Friday, so I get to "let it all hang out" with a pair of nice jeans, as opposed to my usual pair of "itchy church pants." Unfortunately, I only have one nice pair of jeans since the rest of them are all raggy in the back because I like to wear jeans with a 32 length because my life is a lie. So my Fridays have been unofficially dubbed "Take Your 36x29 Gap Jeans to Work Day." Do you know how hard it is to find a size 36x29 anything? You have to go to a special "short and squat" store for unnaturally tall midgets and overweight webmasters. But that's ok. Ruth thinks my ass looks fabulous in my jeans, and you've got a special thing going on in the trunk if you can get an 82-year-old woman to give you the once-over, my friend.

Work has been very stressful lately. For instance: things are due. Usually I just throw all of my assignments into the garbage because I'm a loose cannon, and I don't play by the rules here. Apparently, this type of behavior is frowned upon in the corporate world, as opposed to the rookie cop world, where loose cannons who don't play by the rules are encouraged to kill at will and drive dangerously fast. Not here...

Boss: John, how's the documentation for version 7.1 coming along?
John: Chief, you can't put me behind the desk like this... I belong in the streets!
Boss: But, you're a technical writer...
John: That's not what this badge says, chief. It says "To Protect and Serve." My family was butchered by those mafia thugs... BUTCHERED! With this badge at my side, chief, I'll make sure those bastards pay...
Boss: Your badge has a picture of Toucan Sam on it, and I'm not your "chief."
John: That's right chief... I'm my own chief. That's why I'm going out into the streets... to take back what's mine...
Boss: Great! Please don't come back.

So take your pick! I haven't updated the site because:
a) it's on the back burner.
b) I'm too busy accosting my secretary with tiny stringed bags.
c) I'm a renegade-ish, loose cannon with a heart of gold.
d) both a and c
e) both b and d

Aaaannnddd... pencils down.

 
Uh, it starts with "S." Let's see... Swammi? Slippy? Slappy? Swenson? Swanson?
Here it is... "Samsonite!" I was way off! | Friday, 01.02.04
Do you know what's great about being old? In the sentence following this one, I'll supply the answer. Here is the answer that I mentioned in the previous sentence: I have no idea what's going on, ever. You see, I'm too old to figure out new things, and I'm too young to care. Therefore, I simply float around in this stagnant existence, consistently baffled by the world around me, pausing only to reflect on the beautiful failure that is my life.

When I reached the 7th grade, I made a pact with myself, an internal contract if you will:

John: John?
John: Yes, John?
John: Now that we're in the seventh grade, I think it's time to forge an internal contract.
John: Ok John, what sort of internal contract did you have in mind?
John: Well John, I think it would be cool if we stopped learning.
John: Why John, that sounds like a wonderful idea! Please continue.
John: Certainly, John. Instead of going to school and learning new things with our brain and evolving as a human being, we could just sit around and repel all forms of knowledge like... one of those things... y'know... stuff, like, bounces off it... ?
John: Ah, yes, one of those... things... that... doesn't let stuff... come... in.
John: Exactly! Now let's play Battletoads until 6:00 in the morning!
John: Hooray! Whoops, I just shat my pants. Oh well. Hooray!

Armed with a sixth grade education and a permanent scowl, I tackle grown-up issues [insert hilarious methaphor here, unless the phrase contains like or as, in which case, kill yourself in the face repeatedly]. But at least I'm good with my hands! No, seriously, I am. Pretty much all of my strengths flow from my blistery, nail-bitten hands: creating a hilarious and thought-provokingly orgasmic website, playing an embarrassingly large amount of videogames, origami, coin tricks, etc. It's when I'm forced to rely on my brains that people get hurt, but usually the "people" are just me, which breaks so many rules in the English language that I could just spit. In fact, I think I will. All right, I just spit, and while I thought it would make me feel better, it only stunk up the room, because I haven't eaten anything in a few hours, and expired saliva smells like rotten crotch.

"John, we'd like an example of your many failures," you, the audience, states. "OK," I reply, "but strap yourselves in... this is gonna be one bumpy ride!" I rattle my body to and fro in order to give a representation of the ride's bump-filled nature. I've had the same girlfriend for more than two years now. I've known her for five. Despite our months and months of time together, I still find some concepts baffling...

Rachel: John, don't you think it would be nice if we did something... (blink blink blink) romantic together?
John: We always do romantic stuff! What the fuck is your problem? Why must you constantly be up my ass with this shit?
Rachel: When was the last time we did something romantic?
John: I made out with you for like five minutes after dinner the other night... which I paid for by the way.
Rachel: I paid for dinner and you fell asleep at the kitchen table! Then you went upstairs and yelled ethnic slurs at the X-Box for three hours.
John: Oh. Um... I love you?

Arithmatic makes my brain hurt. Speaking of arithmatic, I remember one of my teachers in grammar school gave some girl detention because she wrote the word "Mathematics" on her bookcover instead of "Arithmatic." That girl grew up to become 350 pound punker slut, and now lives in a trailer park in a state where I didn't think trailer parks could grow. All because she wrote the wrong word on her paper bag bookcover. It's sad really. So is my absence of basic arithmatic comprehension.

John: I'd like to buy this thing. I will be paying with cash.
Cashier: Excellent choice, sir. That will be $35.67.
John: Here's a twenty.
Cashier: Um... you still owe me $15.67.
John: No I don't.
Cashier: Yes you do.
John: Oh. I like pandas.

Need more proof that I have a hard time using my brains? I can't remember phone numbers. At all. If I'm supposed to know your phone number by heart, chances are I don't. Don't take offense, I don't know my own cell phone number, and I don't plan on learning it anytime soon, either. I've faxed my timesheet to payroll every Friday for the past two months, and I still can't remember the fax number off the top of my head. I just space out and keep pressing the number 7 over and over until someone in West Bumblefuck with the number (777) 777-7777 (x7777) receives my fax and sends it to the proper department.

Rachel: John, do you remember the number for Jo-Jo's Pizza in Lyndhurst, NJ, home of the greatest pizza in the entire world?
John: Yes I do. It's 201-9... 9... uh... 4... 63.
Rachel: I'll just call 411-
John: NO! (rips phone out of the wall) No one's calling 411 in this house... ever!
Rachel: Stop being a retard and plug the phone back in, asshole.
John: Fine, but just know this: I hate you.
Rachel: Good. (calls 411) Allright, get ready to remember this number...
John: Fire away.
Rachel: 2... 0... 1... 5... 5... 5... 9... 8... 7... 6.
John: Got it.
Rachel: You sure?
John: Positive.
Rachel: OK, now say it back to me.
John: I can't... or I don't want to. One of those. Hey, I'm hungry, let's order a pizza!
Rachel: ...

So there you have it. Through the examples above, it is very obvious that I am a stupid, stupid individual. But hey! At least I have this dumbfuck website that no one reads! Happy New Year! Or, as they say in Canada, "Happy New Year!"

 

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