Skorts. Gauchos. Seriously… what the fuck? I’m a guy that’s never really understood “fashion”. This would have been a redundant statement ten years ago. Today, though, “Queer Eye” has ruined this for all men, and we’re suddenly expected to pay attention. I don’t want to have to pay attention. I want my fucking Garanimals™ back, damn it! I want to look at the tag on my shirt, see a picture of a kitty, and know it will match my kitty label-bearing motherfucking pants!
So, essentially… I have no sense of fashion. At least, that’s what they tell me; and by “them”, I’m of course referring to the people that look at pictures of themselves 5-10 years ago and say shit like, “Oh my god… can you believe we wore that shit?” I can, because I was telling you that you looked like a jackass then! I look at pictures from 10 years ago, and the only thing different is that my hair was black and some random color rather than black and grey… and I still look awesome.
Getting back to the start of this article, though… My girlfriend is really into these “gauchos”. If you don’t know what they are, picture a skirt, a pair of shorts, and a pair of ‘capri’ pants have a baby. A mewling, execrable broodling of TERROR, singing its dark siren’s song to your Madonna-loving, Sex and the City-watching girlfriend’s heart. As if skorts weren’t bad enough! Haven’t we learned yet, as a society, that “fashion” ends up ultimately humiliating us? Did everyone but me forget the whole “wearing your socks outside your jeans” fiasco of the late 80s? What about the tail? My guess is that people don’t really LIKE any of these fashions. It’s like that scene in Absolutely Fabulous where Edina comes down the stairs wearing something hideous, and Patsy says (and I’m paraphrasing because I don’t feel like looking up exact quotes) “What in God’s name are you wearing”. “La Croix,” replies Edina to which Patsy replies, “It’s fabulous.”
Most fashions are just walking advertisements anyway. The DESIGN of most of these “top of the line” bags and shoes are just the logo! Giant “C”s plastered all over the fucking place. We get it. It cost you a bundle. Why not just tape a bunch of $100 bills to your purse? At least that way, you get your money back when your cat pisses inside of it. I can’t wait to see what’s next, though. Maybe a turtleneck combined with a sleeveless tee and a midriff. I bet it exists… and it’s made out of a sweater material, but people wear them in July. Designer tampons, sold individually… and it’s only fashionable to keep the price tag hanging off of the string. Like Ty’s Beanie Babies™. Holy Christ… I’m turning into Andy Rooney.
To sum up… if you’re a woman, you probably look ridiculous. You know… statistically speaking. I’m just judging on the average woman I see in the street. The one that has replaced her “I am drunk and will fuck random strangers” sign with a much more subtle display of her thong hanging half way out of her pants. I mean honestly… can you believe you wore that shit?

Up until I was about 26 years old, I weighed around 125lbs.  For a little perspective on this, I am six feet tall.  Within the span of about 2-3 years, my 20-foot-long tapeworm must have died, because my weight jumped up to a whopping 205lbs.  I can’t really remember a time when I was my “perfect” weight, but considering I went from “way to skinny” to people hiding their children in fear that I might fucking eat them… well, logic would dictate that I was that perfect weight for at least a minute or two.  I am now down to a much more reasonable weight thanks to a little program called Weight Watchers.  Oh… and Atkins… and NutriSystem, the SubWay diet, the all-tuna-all-the-fucking-time diet, South Beach, and the GM diet (yes, it’s real.  I lost 8 pounds… and my fucking will to live). All of these diets worked great… for about a month or two. Then I remembered that I really, really liked Wendy’s cheeseburgers, and due to limited space available in my tiny brain, that memory replaced the one that held the caloric content of a chocolate Frosty™.
Now granted… at least I was trying, and I wasn’t such a huge whale that my asshole wrapped itself around my fucking toilet seat, or that I had to be lifted out of bed by a crane. I was, however, a new member of the “Holy Shit, Does America Have a Weight Problem” club. Seriously, though… some of these people walking around… I can HEAR YOU BREATHING!  That’s too fucking fat, man! When your lungs are fighting for precious oxygen because the food you’ve stuffed into your mouth is now looking for more room to take up inside your body—you are too fucking fat, fatty McFattington! I have an urge to stab some of these people on the street, just to see if they would bleed gravy.  These are the same people that watch TV shows like “The Biggest Loser” with a bucket of chicken in front of them.  It’s OK, though… they got the 40oz diet soda to go with it. It’s all checks and balances.
I think the toughest thing about dieting is a tie between all of that exercise and the fact that I can’t eat whatever I want.  Oh, yeah… and the urge to kill all of your friends and family.  Once you beat those three things, giving up your will to live is a friggin’ breeze.  I actually did try the exercise thing, too… I kept up with it for about a month, and then I decided to take a day off.  “Well”, I thought… “I’ve already screwed up the week, so I’ll just take the week off”.  I then applied that same logic to the month.  Then the year.  You wait, though… if reincarnation is real, I am going to be so fucking fit in my next life!
So, I’ve done the yo-yo dieting game, just like most Americans.  My current struggle in life is no longer my weight, but my struggle to keep from becoming that asshole that has to tell you the amount of fat and calories in what you are eating.  You know what asshole I’m talking about, too (if you don’t, then you are probably that asshole).  The one that gives you constant dieting tips, but they’re on a new diet each week.  ASSHOLE. I answer everything with “You know what else works?  Eat less and exercise, you fat fuck!”.  It ends the conversation at least, but I tend to not be popular in the watercooler crowd.

Like (or hate) what you just read? Hit me up with some feedback below! I love comments! If you’re fingers are like giant sausages, then just pound away at the keys with those meaty mitts the best you can, fatty.  I’ll know what you meant.

Blogs are like poetry for nerds… without the obligatory rhyming scheme, of course. I don’t mean in the sense that it’s a modern take on an existing written art form. I’m referring to the fact that most of them are written by 13 year old girls or really douchey guys trying to impress 13 year old girls. However, I’m not 13, and at my age, picking up a 13 year old girl involves MySpace and a substantial amount of jail time, so instead, I’ll tell little stories and/or rant randomly. So without further ado… let me tell you about the time I shit my pants.
I was working late one night, and a bunch of us decided to go out to dinner afterwards. Someone suggested this little pseudo-Mexican/Italian restaurant he liked, so off we went. Before the food even came, I started to get a “feeling” that William S. Burroughs referred to as a cold punch to the stomach that tells you it’s time for a trip to the men’s room. I also started to feel just a tiny bit nauseous. Without going into detail, I made doodie! So, feeling better, I returned to my seat and ate my food. My Mexican food.
We finished up, paid the bill, and I got in my car to start my one hour drive home. About 15 minutes into it, that aforementioned “icy fist” started beating the living hell out of me. I was roughly 15 minutes from work, and decided my chances were much better of making it back there, rather than trekking all the way home. As I’m driving, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to keep the brown beasts at bay. In order to maintain control, I straightened my legs out and arched my back so that, by the time I pulled into the parking lot, my ass cheeks were squeezed together so tightly, that I was not even touching the seat of the car. Now I was faced with a dilemma. How the FUCK am I going to get out of the car without releasing the air-tight lock currently created by my ass cheeks? A little voice of reason chimed up in the back up my head. The little voice simply said “You’re not. You’re going to shit your pants”… and so it was, with no other option, and the beasts pounding away at the door… I sat back down in my seat, felt a gust of hot air go up the back of my shirt, and shit myself. At age 27. In a suit.
My brain quickly moved onto my next problem. I had a 45 minute drive home, pants full of my own feces, and a girlfriend I didn’t want to explain this evening to. It was then that I remembered my friend’s apartment just down the road. He was away for the entire week, I had the key to his place, oh yeah… and a pant load of shit. I managed to drive there with most of my ass off the seat, got out, and managed to keep ALL of my ex-dinner inside my underwear (but I held my pant legs tight just in case). I made it to the apartment, then to the bathroom. I was home free! I pulled down my pants, went to sit down… and the contents that were safely contained 2 minutes ago went a bit Chernobyl… on his carpet.  After a few hours of cleaning, I made it home to my girlfriend, whom I told about my tummy ache… and nothing else. I kept my pride, her respect, and the keys to my friend’s apartment who still doesn’t know this story to this day.
The moral of this story is don’t eat spicy food when you’re already sick, and be careful what asshole friends you give your apartment keys to. They could be shitting on the floor of your apartment, and you’d never even know.