Posts Tagged ‘roids’

An ugly woman is not whom I want

Wednesday, 25 June 2008

After over a year of being there, one of the ugliest broads at work has started hitting on me. I don’t know what brought it on but it’s annoying and unpleasant.

Earlier the same day Ugly Broad started her doomed crusade I was eyeing the hottest blonde at work, a divorcée with mousy voice, thinning hair, great tits and a weak chin. Even if I had somehow gotten with Blondie, she would be a piss-poor consolation prize to the One I really wanted who I’ll never see again (a blessing like being stabbed with a pencil instead of a bayonet).

I’m not cruel, I wouldn’t tell any ugly broad she’s ugly (believe me, they know) but fellows, even for the shallowest piece of shit among us who’ll screw a fencepost, with Ugly Broad there’s just nothing to work with. Well, she has a fair personality and is not vicious, unlike so many women. But that’s it.

While employed, Roids the Hunk, who banged a different blonde upon his arrival and is now purportedly tagging the big-butted girl with a face like Harold Ramis, also had his share of unwanted attention from the beautily-challenged. It makes my own ineptness feel more natural that a guy like Roids, who all but forced his will on the hotties, had zero skillz in handling the uggos who went after him. An uggo he gave his number to innocently enough when he started working there ended up calling him every single night and harassing him nonstop. His sole defense was avoiding her whenever possible.

I pray to Blind Jesus or whoever the fuck will listen that Ugly Broad by now has taken the hint and won’t bother me again. As bad as I’ve had it, I’ve never harassed any female. I’ve only been too nice and prefer rejection to doing the rejecting.

Advertisements

Empty spaces fill me up with rage

Wednesday, 7 May 2008

Hell is other people; never is this more true than at the gym. If there isn’t a flexing jerkoff around, flitting from bench to machine to mirror like a hummingbird on roids, it’s one of the 30 or so idiots that work there, I don’t know how they afford so many employee/trainers.

The other evening a hot girl and I arrived at the same time and shared the same area of the expansive gym floor. (Hotties to me are nothing but commodities to be afforded later in life. Other than ass they have nothing else I need or want except their perpetual absence). Like the other 12 or so hotties that attend the gym, “Tits” either worked there or arrived joined at the hip with some juicehead who had yet to make his appearance.

I got no vibe from her but she was making quite the spectacle of herself, alternating between doing light weight sets then picking up a fucking jump rope. Now jumping rope is a great way to make your heart explode if you don’t have a shotgun, but whipping it around a la Rocky Balboa takes up a lot of space. Why this idiot had to do this in the free weight area…I guess it was just convenient, plus it was just the two of us.

Until her fine young man joined the fray.

When “Crewcut” touched the small of her back in greeting I imagined strangling them both with the jump rope. I’d even have a choice of which rope to use: that’s right, Crewcut brought his own rope and was doing the same irritating routine as Tits: lift, rope, lift, rope. I didn’t like having to walk around the huge whipping spheres of motion they created. They only jumped rope at the same time. How cute!

One of my strategies to reduce contact with the jerks is to select a bench far up the row of free weights lining the mirrored wall. Not many dudes casually pick up any dumbbells over 100. However, Crewcut found a reason to saunter down to my end and pick up the 85s. He then stood in place in front of the rack, dumbbell in each hand, doing a faggoty shoulder-shrug. In doing so he partially blocked my magnificent view of myself in the mirror-wall, where I practiced throwing that same look that Eddie Murphy gives the camera in Trading Places after the “BLT” line. You know the one: the director had Murphy do over 30 takes to get that look just right. It paid off, and I was still practicing mine when Crewcut finally went back to his jump-rope,-baby-dumbbell-titties-spandex-maiden.

Was he fucking with me by coming over to where I was? Trying to be Alpha? The part of me that wanted to kick the shit out of him thought so. Otherwise, to hell with him.

What prompted me to even comment on these two loveturds is that they quit the free weight area at almost the exact same time I did. When I came out of the locker room I found them shooting hoops in the glass fishtank half-court. I felt the urge to kill them both, always do when the timing of life is off. You mean, these two assholes finished their routine at the same time I did, even though Crewcut arrived 10 minutes later than Tits, and now where all 3 of us had been in each others’ way for over 35 minutes there was NO ONE occupying the area?

I felt the same ridiculous paranoid rage I do when waiting in line for something involving a long counter of multiple tellers or clerks and two of them open up at the same time. Not only does this make me mad that I gain no advantage from being one place ahead of the doof behind me, it just seems unlikely that two different people with two different situations ahead of me would finish in perfect synchronization.

The moral of the story is what it will always be on this planet: Hell is other people. If I’m ever a floating soul in front of a judging God or Jesus or 3 Stooges, I’ll tell them the exact same thing, it’s the finest sentence ever written: Hell is other people. I never bothered to make it a quoticle. This sentiment should shine through in all the work I do.

 

 

Women are like chimps who trade sex for bananas

Wednesday, 30 January 2008

There’s a part-timer at work I’ll call “Roids” who gets all the girls wet.  I’m older and wiser than him but those things don’t matter with the ladies, only money, looks and “attitude”.

Even if I were Roids’ physical clone the ladies would still treat me with indifferent indifference, just like they do now.   I can be just as risqué as Roids and a hell of a lot funnier, but my weirder thoughts can and do ruin the moment.  Because I don’t use my brain to make money it brings only pain and isolation, so I hate people and that’s what shines through.  “Life is a tragedy for those who feel”.

Observing Roids has taught me that women are just as sluttish and shallow as any man, drunk or sober.  It’s not a female weakness but a human one.

Do you think I take delight in pointing out that at heart, women are all a bunch of filthy whores?

Do you? 

If you answered “Yes” then you are wrong.  It rips apart my heart like those fish hooks on chains in the Hellraiser movies. 
“There’s no such thing as a good woman.  Not in France.  Not in Philippines. Not in America.  Not anywhere.”

–Pinoy who’s doing his sister-in-law; from a short story by John Fante

Advertisements