Gymboree

Since my husband turned me on to Google Reader, I’ve been subscribing to CNN.com’s RSS feed. I do this because the headlines alone are usually pretty good for a laugh:

“Folks Who Want to Meet their Meat” (huh?)

“Police: Driver in Wrong-Way Wreck Drank Heavily” (no shit, Sherlock.)

“Watch Your Step and Iran Trip Can Be Safe” (great, I’ll call my travel agent right now!)

When I saw “Suspected Shooter Blogged about Killing,” I decided to take the bait and read the whole article.


Am I glad I did. I learned all about some lonely nerd in Pittsburgh who joined a gym and was overwhelmed by the vast number of delectable babes there, who he described as “so beautiful as to not be human, very edible.” In fact, the chicks were so hot, and so certain was he none of them would give him the time of day, he decided to go on a mass killing spree. Of course, he pussed out multiple times, but according to his blog, he eventually decided to summon up the old liquid courage: “it popped into my mind to just use some booze. After the gym, I stopped…and got a fifth of vodka and…Jack Daniels.” (Those are certainly my first choices after a good workout.) Then he wandered into the gym, turned off the lights, fired 50 rounds, then shot himself. Nice.

I think there are several lessons to be learned here.

Lesson #1: go to the gym to work out, not to get laid. If you’ve ever seen me at the gym, you know I already live by this. I am not hot when I’m gettin’ my sweat on. Well, I’m hot, but I’m damn sure not attractive by any stretch of the imagination. My workout wear consists of granny panties under baggy gym shorts with a raggedy jog bra under a maternity t-shirt. Sex-aaaay! If I’m wearing makeup at all, it’s because I put it on several hours earlier in anticipation of going to work. Same with my hair. If it’s a weekend, chances are good I’m bare-faced and my head looks like a Chia Pet. Not even a real Chia Pet, but some knock-off variety that only grows in patches. Mmm-hmmm. You know you want some of that.

There are ladies at my gym who obviously do not play by my rules. They arrive in carefully constructed exercise attire (with matching shoes) in full makeup with nary a hair out of place. These women rarely break a sweat as they read their gossip magazines and romance novels from their recumbent bikes. There is one—I call her “The Hot Girl”—who makes some semblance of physical effort. Sort of. She saunters over to the backwards-sit-ups thing (I don’t know what it’s called) and assumes the position, making sure everyone in the place can see her thong hanging out over her exceptionally tight sweats (with the word “PINK” splayed across her ass—thanks for the visual). Then she does 10 or 12 reverse sit-ups, hops off the thing, and slowly parades back and forth behind it, looking around to see if anyone noticed. The Hot Girl is not there to work out. She’s on a mission from God. Or whoever rules her planet and wanted her to come down here and breed. She provides me with endless entertainment.

But reading this CNN.com article about the freakshow in Pitt, I now wonder if The Hot Girl and her cohorts are actually a threat to my alive-itude. Are they dissing some lonely dork on a treadmill and thereby sending us all into certain doom? Egad.

So bitches, do us all a favor, and ugg it up when you go to the gym. Don’t go there to mate. That’s what work is for.

Lesson #2: when you die, or do something crazy, people will read your blog and use it to come to conclusions about your character. Wow. I am in some deep shit, aren’t I? I can only imagine the kind of CNN headlines MY blog would generate.


“Crazy Bitch Had a Soft Spot for Office Supplies.”


“Psycho Mom Held Grudge Over Bike Theft.”


“Comedian Michael Ian Black Taking Anti-Stalker Precautions, Moves to Undisclosed Location.”


Great. Quite a legacy to leave for my children.