Tag Archives: triumphs based on ari being unable to stop me

veggie or die

I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Ever since I became a vegetarian nine years ago, I’ve had to defend my Manhood.  When people found out that I didn’t eat meat, their faces would scrunch, they’d laugh a little, and I’d be forced to declare something to balance things out, like “But I love sports, big butts and drinking beer! Sometimes all at once!”

But no more.

Today, a study was released. It reports that people who eat meat are 30% more likely to die prematurely (from cancer or heart disease) than those who don’t.

That’s all I ever needed as a rebuttal, wrapped up in a perfect little package, like maybe a Hot Dog Full Of Death that you meat eaters enjoy.

From now on, my problems with The Diet Conversation are solved.

When a guy jokes with me that I must be some kind of wuss for not eating steak, I’ll just calmly reply, “That’s funny.  Hope you have fun dying tomorrow.”

When I attend a barbecue at a friend’s place, and the eyes of the party inevitably focus on me as I lay my veggie burger upon the grill, I will take a gulp of my Coors Light, crinkle the can in my hand (unless it hurts to do that) and proclaim, “Sorry, I’m not eating meat. I have this thing with not dying.”

It’s beautiful.

Today I do not shun my Tofurkey.  Today I hold my head up high.  Today I say, “I am Man!  And I eat Veggie Dogs!”

Well, at least I say that to those of you who are still alive.

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nobody gimme no back talk!

I’m one of those annoying people who owns an iPhone, and yes I love it even though it has the worst service ever and sometimes vibrates for no reason at all.

One of the major selling points for the iPhone is the applications that you can download, ranging from To Do lists to games.  Of course I’ve downloaded tons of them, and then promptly never used them again.

This is how Apple gets you.  They make this cool thing, then tell you to buy other cool things to have on your cool thing, with the end result you telling your sad iPhone-less friends “Look how cool this thing is.”  It’s marketing genius really.

The problem with the apps is that they get old quickly though.  I once downloaded a soccer game (for ten fucking dollars) and I thought it was the best game ever.  The graphics were great and it was genuinely entertaining – for about two weeks.

Eventually I came to the realization that the soccer game was taking up precious memory space that I could fill with songs like “The Final Countdown” (arguably the best use of a synthesizer ever) and “Under The Milk Way” (still makes me think of Donnie Darko which still creeps me out), so I deleted it.

That’s the fate most of my apps have met – I love them for a short period of time and then I never use them again or just end up erasing them.

But yesterday another blogger told me through Twitter about an app that I love now that I downloaded it.  An app that will blow your mind – and it’s free.

I’m talking about iPity.

It’s a random Mr. T quote generator, and with the sound on, there’s Mr. T shouting at you: “Got no time for da jibba jabba!” It’s pretty much life-changing.  You can also choose quotes if you want to.  In fact last night I sat on my couch and kept using it whenever Ari would ask me something.  Once she got fed up with me and told me to stop, I used on final “No way fool!”  It was sweet.

If you have an iPhone or iTouch or iButt or whatever, go download iPity, I promise you won’t regret it.

Well, at least for two weeks.

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it’s all in the reflexes

Because the guy who was training me to box recently left my gym, yesterday I decided to go to a boxing gym for the first time.

I was nervous to say the least, because 1) I’m not tough 2) I’m not good at boxing and 3) I act like both #1 and #2 are incorrect.  

As I walked to the building I decided that I needed to put as much Manliness in my brain as possible, so I put on some Rage and hoped that somehow my training would involve questions about Peruvian guerrilla operations.

Once I entered the building I got on the elevator going down instead of up, where the gym is located.  I took that as A Good Sign.

When I finally found the gym, the first thing I saw was a picture of the gym’s owner, along with Roy Jones Jr. and Christian Slater.

Christian Slater!

Obviously, I was way more intimidated by Christian Slater than Roy Jones Jr., because hello?  Dude was in Young Guns II.

Shaking my pure awe of Christian Slater being in the same gym as I was, a trainer approached me and suggested that I start with three rounds of jump roping.  So that’s what I did.  And that’s when I realized jumping rope for three minutes straight is hard and sometimes makes me angry.

After that was done, the trainer and I did some work on the bags and inside the ring. Once inside the ring, where the trainer repeatedly told me “stop leaning!” and kind of laughed when I told him I was a writer, I figured something else out about myself:  I was the second worst boxer in the entire gym, narrowly beating out the desk near the entrance.

As my time wound down I asked my trainer for some water, but because the gym didn’t have a water fountain (I assume this is because boxers don’t need wussy water) I had to buy a bottle of water.  Of course my cash was in my locker, so the trainer told me I could pay on the way out.  

Once we were finished I thanked my trainer for making me feel like I was going to die, washed up then headed out.

I will definitely be going back because boxing is just too much fun.  And as for upping my toughness factor, let’s just say I might have left without paying for that bottle of water.

Let’s see Christian Slater top that.

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homicide

This morning on the way to the gym, I got a text from a friend that informed me that Eddie Murphy had signed on to star in the next Batman movie as the Joker.

Naturally, this threw my world into complete chaos.

Throughout my workout, all I could think about was how Murphy was going to ruin everything and how I’m not racist dammit but how the hell can the Joker go from being a white dude to a black dude and that make any sense at all???

As I finished pumping iron (which is a technical term for lifting weights) I came to the only possible conclusion that I could come to – I had to kill Eddie Murphy.

The plan I came up with went like this: Show up at his house – which is easy because he lives in Jersey – ring the doorbell, and when he answered yell, “Dude Beverly Hills Cop was awesome but you can’t do this to my Batman!” Then stab him with my pen.  Which I’ll use because, well, I don’t own a knife.  Also knives can be scary.

I had the plan all ready to go when I arrived at the office.

There I saw my friend who had informed of this travesty to begin with, so of course I started ranting and raving (and maybe waving my arms around like a mad man) about how I thought Murphy playing the Joker was basically the Worst Thing Ever.

At that moment he looked at me and said, “Oh, no wait.  He’s playing the Riddler. I must have sent it wrong in the text.”

I was relived, and I’m sure Eddie is glad too, even though he had no idea he was about to die by Bic to the head.

But then I remembered that Shia Labeouf is reportedly going to play Robin, and Robin is just the stupidest character ever, so now I have to kill him instead.

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be a better man

I really hate it when people say they have no regrets.  Everyone has regrets.

Maybe it was that time you slept with that ugly chick/dude because you had one too many Icehouses, or maybe it was just getting up this morning.

Either way, everybody has regrets, even me.

Now I know you’re thinking, “But Chris, you have a blog!  What could you possibly feel badly about doing???”

It’s something that I’m not entirely proud of, so this is not easy for me to admit to you.

But here it is:  I’ve never worn a full track suit outfit.

I know!

I’ve never known what it was like to go out in public and have my clothing proclaim, “I am not afraid to wear pajamas outside of my apartment!”

The worst part about this is that I am a full supporter of sweat pants and the like being accepted as formal wear.  I’ve even advocated this to friends, suggesting that when they get married, sweat pants for all involved!  Of course they didn’t think this was such a great idea, especially the women.  But women are widely known to be Weird And Suspicious Creatures, so it doesn’t really surprise me.

Can you imagine living with this on your conscience?

Everyday I have to look at myself in the mirror, and immediately after I finish thinking about how I am quite the handsome man, I then remember my Track Suit Failure, and get sad on the inside.

Look, I’ve had 29 years to zip myself into some velvety heaven, and I haven’t done it.  It is wrong!

How can I, a respectable (at least on Tuesdays) human being, go through my life without having at least once walk down the streets wearing a track suit with the top unzipped exposing my bare chest to the world???

Well I can’t.

I can’t do it.

I can’t live with myself and it stops now.  I’m going to do some shopping and I’m going to pick out the best track suit my money will buy.

I’m talking the entire thing baby – velour to the floor.

No more regrets my friends.

No more.

In fact, if there’s ever a huge blogger meet-up, and I finally get to meet all of you fine people, just look for the guy in the velour track suit, smiling like he just found out he won the lottery.

That’ll be me.

 

(I’m going to be away tomorrow, but have no fear!  I have an awesome guest post ready for you, so please come back then and show that blogger your support.)

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the day the music died

Bon Jovi.

The name invokes many thoughts, feelings and even memories, doesn’t it?

Right now you’re probably thinking of that time when you heard “Livin’ on a Prayer” and you thought to yourself that you could identify with Tommy who used to work on the docks and was down on his luck because you, too, thought life “is tough, so tough.”

Or maybe you’re thinking of how great you felt when you belted out “You Give Love a Bad Name” while downing cans of Busch Light at the local bar and the woman with blonde highlights and cut-off jean shorts thought you “rocked” and went home with you even after you vomited on her leg.

But not me.

I don’t have fond thoughts.

I hate Bon Jovi and I want them to go away.

The only thing that gives me an once of respect for them is that they produced a pretty decent song for Young Guns 2, which was a bad ass movie.

Other than that, I could be perfectly happy with my life if I never had to hear “Livin’ on a Prayer” or any other song by them again.

For awhile, I thought that I was in the clear.

There were some years when the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and no one had heard from Jon (Your name is really spelled John, by the way, you fucking ass – what, taking the “h” out of your name made you that much more rocking?) and the gang for quite some time.

Then they came storming back with the single “It’s My Life,” which makes me want to stab my ears with a spoon because it is so damn cheesy.

And just like that – no more sun shining and no more birds chirping.

Just the sound of terrible pop music sung by a man who sports a woman’s haircut while jamming to guitar riffs played by quite possibly the ugliest man alive.  Okay, it’s a toss-up between him and Tom Petty.

My hate for Bon Jovi has been reignited because it has just been announced that the band will be playing here at Central Park on the 12th.

Guess who’s going to that show?

Me.

I’m going to show up early so I can get a front row seat, and when that bastard comes on stage, I’m going to tell him how I feel and maybe throw my dirty socks at his head.

I’ve had enough Bon Jovi.

The shitty music must stop.

Get ready for hell.

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heaven on earth

Eventually, when I’m forced to flee New York because I’ve become such a famous blogger that the paparazzi starts taking pictures of me in my underwear and That’s Not Acceptable, I am going to buy a house.

This house will be great and awesome and probably make my neighbors jealous, but I also realize that this house will be Ari’s Domain.

That is how life works.

She will want frilly things like nice coasters and matching towels and probably a welcome mat that has something witty written on it like “Please Wipe Paws Here.”

And that’s fine with me.

Because as I’ve already told her in many Serious Discussions – she can do whatever she wants with the entire house as long as I get the basement.

The basement will be The Man Room.

It will have Man Things in it only.

There will be a giant TV for sports and video games.

There will be art hung from the walls – like this.

Because Bo Knows Man Rooms. That doesn’t sound good, but you get the idea.

And there will be this.

Because that was the coolest part of the movie, you know, when they try and Find Themselves before going and kicking ass.

And there will definitely be this.

Because – well, Robocop is the fucking man. Or robot. Or cyborg. Whatever he wants to be – he’s the fucking man.

I imagine there where will also be this.

Because Johnny didn’t stand a fucking chance.

Aside from this wealth of Amazing Posters, my Man Room will have a Kegerator, and a pool and air hockey table.

Women will only be allowed down if they give The Secret Knock, which will never be given out to my friends girlfriends, wives and mistresses, because they can only cause Trouble.

Yes the Man Room will be a place where me and my friends can escape and talk about the Important Issues Facing Men.

Like how many beers you can drink before you pass out and why No Holds Barred never gets the kind of love it deserves.

It is going to be awesome.

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