Good At Faking It


The other day I proclaimed the words “I’m hoping to get outside and do something–ANYTHING–in the coming days.” Today I am forced to exclaim “SHITBALLMOTHERBUCK!” Because that just hasn’t happened and I am filled with a seething hate as intense as a thousand, blistering suns.

OK, not really, not at all.

Things just didn’t work out time wise on Friday so it was to the Stankment™ again, pedaling to nowhere while listening to a mix of music that 99.999% of the time I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to, but for some reason gets my legs going on the trainer. For many this music works best for such activities as twerking, smoking multiple bongs of weed while playing Grand Theft Auto or slipping roofies to sorority girls, scantily clad in ugly, overpriced, Abercrombie & Fitch clothing. But for an old, pasty assed, out of shape white dude like myself, it works best when on the stationary trainer. I don’t ask too many questions, I just go with the beats that Stylust Beats is laying down… (I apologize for how dumb that sounded).

Today (Saturday) I woke up seeing hints of bright sunshine peeking through the blinds of the Chamber of Farts known as my bedroom. I wanted to keep sleeping but the thoughts of FA Cup footy on the television and the prospect of getting out for a ride had my nether regions all tingly n’at, so I got out of bed, tucked my wood up out-of-the-way, brushed my teeth and headed down for some coffee (utilizing my new favorite mug).

Sadly, once the coffee woke me up and my contacts found their appropriate spots on my eyeballs it was pretty clear there would be no riding today. The wind was gusting up to and over 30 miles per hour at times and wind chills were well, well, WELL below zero. Screw that, I’m too old/lazy for that shit.

So, I did what any slacker of my advancing age, girth and lack of talent would do: I poured a 2nd, 3rd and 4th cup of coffee, ate, watched West Ham fail to show up at all against West Brom, took my customary two to six dumps and headed to the Stankment™. Not to ride, but to run and do three miles worth of sprint intervals and sweat like a pig in heat as the winds blew snow against the basement’s ground level windows.

Again, this week is NOT what I envisioned, but to tell you the truth, I have no idea what I envision a good week in the dick shrinking winter of Michiganderburgh to be like. One day at a time, etc., etc.,

There’s always tomorrow, right? I mean it’s supposed to be 7˚ tomorrow! HEATWAVE!! Then again, I’m betting better and more used to this this fake exercise stuff, or better yet doing f*ck all.


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