Half Past Awesome

One Motivated MoFo

Foolishly, I’ve signed up for a 10k race with The Dirtbag, to be held in September in Portland, Oregon (read about it here). As I slide down the backside towards 40, it’s occurred to me that some sort of training is in order. Regimen details are boring, so I’ll spare you, but it began in earnest two days ago. It was a day I’ll remember for at least a week, since I think it’s the first time in recorded history that I’ve gone into major organ failure. And, along with my lungs throwing a rod, I felt my will to push the throttle diminishing with each slow revolution of the feet. More depressing than the lack of capability to run three miles without walking was the knowledge that last year I’d worked it on up to seven miles before a knee issue (compounded by sheer tonnage) sidelined my last attempt to train for a race.

Intimidation and fear of failure are powerful self-loathing tools, indeed.

What in THE HELL am I thinking? There’s a reason that the average lifespan of the American male in 1800 was 35 years; it’s the same reason there aren’t too many professional athletes my age. We’re physically ready to die, and building up a resistance to that is going to be an uphill fight from here on out. And most days, that stupid hill seems like more effort than it’s worth.

It got me to thinking: what’s the measure of a good firefighter? Besides an ability to clean toilets without complaint, a tolerance for bureaucracy, and a deep and abiding love for irregular sleep patterns, I’ve boiled it down to one admirable trait: an ability to persevere when conditions are rapidly deteriorating around you.  Of course, this is the hallmark of not only good firefighters, but professionals of every stripe. And when it comes down to athletics, or finding love after your spouse dies in a cruise ship wreck, or being a quadriplegic dog trying to win the Iditarod, there’s no shortage of movies with stirring music that focus on the will of the winner. And despite having an iPod cranking out the very motivational Dropkick Murphys while I try and run three miles, there is no heroic soundtrack that pushes me through the pain. There is no Chariots Of Fire playing while I lithely high step like a gazelle around the gravel track; in fact the only thing comparable is that my full speed could be construed as the right cadence for the slow-mo scenes.

It was hot, it was sweaty and I’m pretty sure I sounded like a musk-ox in its death-throes as I drunkenly weaved around, lap after lap, getting more pissed by the meter. I wish I could’ve told you the moment when I gritted my teeth and dug deep into my well of endurance and sand and machismo, but it never happened. It was a wheezing painful experience from start to finish, one I never enjoyed. Aches were compounded with the acrid scent of shame as I was getting passed and lapped by the fit people, who no doubt felt pretty good about themselves as they floated by me. When I looked into my mental locker of tools to deal with difficult situations, all I came up with was blinding rage, an abundance of apathy and an unhealthy relationship with bourbon and bacon. Hardly the keys to a winning career in distance running. I leaned heavily on self-loathing and rage at the weather to sustain me that last 2.9 miles. Use what tools you own, I suppose. And in a grouchy, sweaty disjointed heap, I stumbled across mile 3 in what seemed like several hours.

And that was the on the first day. It’s gonna be a long couple of months.

Uli Less Lardass

The Smoker's Rights Champion

Tonight, the city council of Springberg will be meeting to consider a more all-encompassing smoking ban in public places. By “more all encompassing”, I mean one that isn’t riddled with enough loopholes to make RJ Reynolds blush with pride. And holy guacamole, it’s causing a firestorm of alleged controversy, at least on the message boards all populated with smokers named “anonymous redneck” or some other cute moniker.

What really kills me about smokers is the veil of freedom that they cloak themselves in: it smacks of wild hypocrisy. The same old chestnuts get trotted out each time, red herrings sliding down slippery slopes. You know these by now, don’t you?

• “it starts with smoking, then next thing you know, they’ll be banning water because it’s dangerous”
• “it’s all a liberal plot designed to take away my guns, my smokes and my right to be a Nazi”
• “they’ll be crying the blues when I, and all my freedom-loving friends, take our business elsewhere.”
• “why not regulate fast food too, you fascist pigs?”
• “this is yet another plot by Big Brother to eviscerate the American Spirit”
• “if the employees/patrons don’t like it when I smoke, they should just work/go ‘elsewhere’“

Full disclosure here: I don’t care if you smoke, I was raised in a household of smokers and I can’t stand it. I have my own disgusting habits that we can deal with on another day, but this isn’t about your personal habit. It’s more about your desire to thrust your habits on others and play the victim of an oppressive tyrannical mass. And who doesn’t want to root for a helpless victim?

And therein lies the crux of my argument: just be honest about your intentions.

It’s similar to when marijuana advocates claim to have a real interest in hemp as an alternative rope material. WHO CARES ABOUT ROPE? Stop insulting the rest of us by working yourself into an orgasm over rope – just say “hey, look, I just really want to smoke weed, and I want it to be legal.” THAT I can respect, if only for your ability to be honest about your intentions. Good for the advocates. Work your asses off to legalize it SO YOU CAN SMOKE IT ALL YOU WANT. Nobody gives a shit about rope, I promise.

So, it is my hope that the council gets with the program. They have an uphill battle, with Missouri always ranking as one of the smoking-est states in the nation and some of the lowest taxes on smokes anywhere. This along with other such distinctions as living in the county with the highest child abuse rates and winning the award for the most Meth-tastic state make for a glut of “freedom” fighters. Poor choices abound. When we bitch about Big Brother, what are we complaining about? Is it the fact that a social contract exists, the same one that mandates we all drive on one side of the road and we don’t go on coke-fueled murderous rampages?

I get to see the results of a lifetime of smoking when we go on our emphysema patients for the umpteenth time, hooked up to oxygen cannulas stained brown and demanding the right to smoke in the ambulance on the way to the hospital for “shortness of breath”. Unfortunately, their desire for personal freedom often costs the rest of us in terms of covering their medical bills.

I’m just hoping for some truth in advertising. Smokers should just say “yeah, it’s a vile habit and I want to continue to do it where I please.” Stop the spin. Stop wrapping yourself in the Constitution, playing the role of innocent victim.

You’d never get my vote, but you might get my respect for being honest.

Uli Wandering Ponderings

The True Fan.

World Cup knockout round time is upon us. Unlike 96% of residents in the Ozarks, I don’t hate soccer. I’m not threatened as a citizen by the international game, and this is heavily influenced by having The Lyin’ Dutchman as a father. My brothers and I grew up watching soccer on Telemundo, playing soccer in AYSO and watching the old man play in a league he insisted was “semi-pro” until a broken arm as a keeper turned him onto a new career path as a fanatic referee. There’s nothing quite like getting yellow AND red carded by your own father, who would only address me by number on the field.

But soccer as a sport was just one aspect of being the child of an immigrant. It wasn’t all-consuming, we (the offspring) weren’t obsessed with it, and really, we disappointed the old man greatly when we chose channels other than Telemundo. But soccer will always be the background noise that reminds me of my youth. I half expect Aunt Viper to come in every time I have World Cup on, screaming racial epithets, chain smoking with a fury.

With all that being said, I’m really only a fan every four years. Unlike my friend Erik, another son of a Dutchman, who can get away with wearing a jersey since he can name more than two players, I am lazily casual about it. And in no way whatsoever am I ashamed of it. I love the fact that teams from around the world are actually competing, unlike a “World Series” that should be re-named “United States Plus Some Canadian Teams Series”. I love watching fanatical fans who look to be on the verge of full scale rioting with each game. I love being a part time fan.

I feel that way about every sport. I become a fan of baseball in October, football in the fall (since it represents a change in seasons and the beginning of hot finger foods as “meals”), and hockey for about the first 67 games of the season and the Stanley Cup finals. I respect the devotion that some people have for “their” sport, slavishly following each aspect of “their” team, reveling in the minutiae and oblivious to any other sporting competitions. My short attention span mindset can’t do this, but I respect it, nonetheless.

This time every four years, I, too become a part time superfan. I cheer the goals of obscure countries as though I were a citizen of each. I share in the outrage of outrageous calls and I feign incredulity at the high drama that soccer players employ. I’ve found a couple of other firemen who are fans, too, and we talk about the games and highlights as though we actually know the intricacies of each team (“I mean, really, who expected that out of the South Korean keeper? After his atrocious play in group, no one is surprised”. Total bullshit statement, but we nod our heads, anyways).

So, here’s to the soccer fans out there. I’d like to see a little more drama than just the French team unravel-fest that played out earlier. More cars set on fire in the streets, more insane costume-wearing, less vuvuzela. Of course, I’d like to see my country go far in the competition, and I’ll go predictably nuts if they can beat Ghana in the knockout round. But really, I’m just happy they let me be a fan, even if only once every four years.

Uli Wandering Ponderings Aunt Viper, The Lyin' Dutchman

Smacking The Dirtbag

On September 12, 2010 two middle-aged heaping sacks of sluggishness will square off in Portland, Oregon for the Pints To Pasta 10k race. The Dirtbag and I are said heaping sacks of man-fat, and the event promises to be one in slow-motion, with me employing every dirty tactic I can come up with to sabotage my best friend. I’ll dump ExLax in his coffee, I’ll employ some kung-fu kicks to his throat at the starting line, I’ll get into his head by talking about how hot his wife is (he’s jealous and he hates it when I do this). He may be a man of honor and valor and Church and all that, but I’m a sneaky rat bastard. If I’m gonna fly all the way across the country, I’m gonna want to see blood.

Why bring this up?

Because along with being a sneaky rat bastard, I am also highly unmotivated. So unmotivated, I might try and weasel out of this commitment with sleazy tactics, like faking a pregnancy. I figure if I declare it publicly, I’ll have no choice but to enter or else face additional ridicule by you. And that won’t stand.

So, the training has begun in earnest. And by earnest, I mean I ran a mile today on a completely unrelated note. The crazy unhinged leader of CrossFit Springfield decided that a good way to end up the workout was to run 1.2 miles in conditions that rival the surface of the sun. With humidity. After getting tossed around the gym like a two-dollar hooker on dollar day, I stumbled outside, plugged in some kill-your-landlord Celticskapunk and began the plod.

It could have gone worse. No death, no near-death, and only mild heat stroke. If sweating truly is liquid fat leaving the body, then I should be looking a little less John Candy and a little more Jean-Claude Van Damme in no time. It’s as though gallons of Guinness and several hogs’ worth of bacon came cascading out today, even if the scale refuses to acknowledge it. 1.2 miles is a bit off from a 10k, but it’s all about baby steps.

And when the baby-steps mutate into awkward teenage lumbering? I’m coming after you, Dirtbag.

It’ll be ugly, it’ll be chaotic and it’ll be embarrassing on my part. But it’ll be ON!

Heart attack to follow.

Uli Amigos, Less Lardass CrossFit Craziness, Dirtbag

A lot of us have multiple fathers. Baby-daddies, step-dads, sperm donors, fathers, papas, sirs and the like. I have had two in my life and each had a hand in who I’ve become as person. And for the first 29 years of my life, I couldn’t appreciate what it took to be a father, so Father’s Day meant little more to me than a chance to bestow some hand-made piece of junk gift and a hug or two. Then I became a father, and the game changed, considerably.

To have a child of your own blood has an impact the likes of which cannot be paralleled. The bond remains, tested though it may be by either party, throughout the years, and I took a vow to never take that bond with my own boys lightly. When you hold your child for the first time and realize that THIS is the person for whom you’ll sacrifice your own life, for whom you’re willing to do hard time in prison, you can’t ever go back. You can’t un-know the emotion, and it builds from the moment it’s forged. Each of our children is a biologically bonded and inextricably linked by unconditional love and a selfless desire to watch them grow up healthy and strong, able to take on this world’s challenges.

This is the love of a father, and having experienced it, I can now appreciate it what it takes for a stepfather.

There is no blood bond. That child will always be the son/daughter of someone else. They’ll look like their father, and you’ll always be reminded of that each time you look at them. And yet, for a lucky few of us, we’re still loved unconditionally.

I am a lucky step son.

When I was 4, he came into our lives, a bearded carpenter with a quick laugh and an ability to make my mom smile, something that had been stolen from her over the previous few years. He wanted me to jump in the truck and go to the job-site with him. He showed me his life, he (tried to) teach me his skills, he took a genuine interest in me and he showed me unconditional love. Every boy needs that from a father.  He stepped in, he stepped up, and I’ll never have the words to express to him how much that meant to me, still means to me.

32 years have passed and he’s still the man I consider dad. We’ve had difficult times, to be sure. There’s not a soul out there who can outwork him and I’m fundamentally lazy, so you can imagine the friction that smoldered into a full-bore furnace during the teen years. Today, at 66, he can still drive me into the dirt with his work ethic, and one of my biggest fears is letting him down. He’s old-school enough that we don’t discuss such things as “emotions” or “validation” or any number of institutions he considers “communist propaganda reserved for hippies”. And that’s ok. I can always get him to visit us here in Missouri with the promise of an upcoming project that I’d be sure to screw up if he’s not here to build it right. I need to come up with a new project soon, because I miss him.

But for now, I just want to say thanks. Thanks to the man who makes my mom happy, because she deserves it. Thanks to the man that inspired me to be a worthy dad, one who can give to his children what he’d received as a young boy: a father’s love.

Thank you Robert.

Happy Father’s Day from a grateful son.

Uli Family DysFUNction

Busted

I’m sitting here, right now, in this very moment, at a Panera Bread Co. coffeehouse staring at another firefighter. I noticed him when he tossed a crumpled napkin in my face and recklessly close to my coffee. I was wasting time on the computer, waiting for something funny to wander into my mindset, something that would make a good post. Something ironic. Something to which I could offer a scathing review. A tale of amusement from the firehouse.

But never, ever, in the presence of a fireman. Not in a hundred years.

And here, in this unlikely corner of an unlikely strip mall, my worlds collided when he called out:

“Whatcha doing? Are you bloggggggging, Uli?”

Deep sigh on my part.

Shit.

I write out ideas, and have noodled out a post in the station on occasion, but those turdblossoms at firehouse #2 are used to my dropping in the ear buds and tuning them out for protracted periods. They’ve become closet fans, never outright admitting they read any of this, but quick to point out if there was some sort of error in my last post. It pains them to give any credit, and this is a trait of a good fireman, so I understand completely.

But I keep the whole enterprise away from view of most of the department, because to advertise you have a blog to firemen is akin to advertising that you watch High School Musical or like vampire “literature”, or scrapbook as a hobby. It just isn’t done. Firefighters relate to one another through the time-honored mediums of insult and shit-talking one another. You can’t tell your best friend how much he means to you, but you can walk up to him in the engine bay and open-handed slap him in the face and he’ll get the idea. It is a world of bizarre tradition and ritual where you must constantly assert your heterosexuality through the act of grabbing ass with other men. It makes no sense to outsiders and is the bane of the Human Resources department, who would just as soon interact with sock puppets as opposed to firefighters. They really, really don’t want to go into a firehouse, because we’re the dirty inbreds of city employment, and it’s best to just call 911 if you really want to see us.

So yeah, blogging is kind of a dirty word. I don’t blog. I post essays. I write stories. I waste copious amounts of time trying to think of something funny to say, but I don’t ever blog for the love of Clint Eastwood and all things manly.

Here I sat and here I was, busted as sin.

This was a fulcrum moment.

To deny is your first instinct. But this particular fireman can smell weakness three miles away, and drops the “bullshit” flag as fast as anyone in the department. And he lives to torture. You say you’re homophobic? Prepare for an onslaught of nudity in your face, in your locker, in the bunkroom. Don’t have money to pay for a meal at the station? That’s fine, he’ll let you eat….if you eat some cockroaches first. But there are two things that distinguish him: you can’t bullshit a bullshitter if you want his respect, and if you’re ever trapped in a burning building he’s the one you want crawling in to get you. Like a junkyard pitbull, he never lets go, he never gives up, and it makes him one hell of a fireman. It also makes him drive co-workers to tears of humiliation and shame. My lucky day, indeed.

And so, after ten years of working alongside him, through several threats and wrestling matches and insults and terror, I realized I’d been had. I could try and insist I was looking at something respectable, like porn, in a public place, but he’d seen it in my face. He caught me dead to rights, as though he’d walked in on me with knitting needles in hand and doilies in my lap.

“I KNEW IT! You’re writing your little bloggy thingy aren’t you, you filthy little bastard?”

As I shrugged my shoulders and threw back the last of the 54th cup of bottomless coffee, I went with the only tactic I could employ:

“Well, I won’t tell anyone you caught me in a coffee shop. Your secret’s safe, dude.”

To which his wife piped up:

“Oh, we love this place. They have the best desserts. We come here all the time.”

Check and mate.

Uli Siren Songs, Wandering Ponderings

"Class Of '92 Valedictorian. You Don't Remember Me? So Help Me, I'm Gonna Smack You."

Last weekend I joined The Wife at her 20 yr. high school reunion. I knew one other attendee but was still forced to wear a name tag. At least I was given the option of writing my own name, so I made one up. The rest of the night I wore the label “Random Spouse”, and insisted that people call me by that. Because really, it saved people the embarrassment of pretending to remember me from Algebra, when in truth I’d never met these people in all my life. It was quite the ice breaker, and I was glad to have a starting point in meeting people. See, I don’t really like strangers, but once we’ve talked, we’re not strangers, we’re friends. So I made lots of friends that night. And I watched with detached amusement as all these former soul mates waltzed around awkward conversations involving hair loss, kids and just what in the hell happened over these last 20 years.

It was a night to enjoy, at least from my perspective.

How can an occurrence of just four years have such a stranglehold on the next twenty years? No matter how successful these people had become, no matter how far they’d moved away, when all parties were in the room, everyone fell back into the roles they remembered back then. You could tell who the popular folks were, just as you could tell who was geeky and awkward back in the day. Add some wrinkles and a belly or two, and nothing’s changed. I really loved listening to people’s stories about how they knew The Wife, where they’d been since graduating Kickapoo High in 1990 and how it felt to reconnect with those who’d been their whole realm of social connection way back when.

And it got me to thinking; in two short years I’ll be back in California, seeing my former classmates, doing the same klutzy dance of rekindling our connections. Facebook has been great as a medium by which to completely bullshit about where you are in life. I mean, no one is going to put as an update: “uggghhh. just don’t know how I’ll pay the water bill this month. Stupid real estate bubble!” No, you’re required to post things like “Another shitty day in paradise as I catch smooth lefts on Bali. THIS is living!” Or “Martha’s Vineyard ROCKS MY FACE OFF!” So, as an aside, don’t go believing my updates, as I’m apt to lie just to sound like my life is much more fabulous than its mundane reality. But in actuality, I’m starting to get really stoked to meet up with people with whom I’d lived for four years.

That’s right: lived. I went to boarding school (“Hi, I’m John, I went to boarding school and developed an unhealthy love of Led Zepplin and Ramen Noodle soup”… “HI JOHN!”). It was by choice, it was co-ed and no, it wasn’t a punishment. Quite the opposite from where I was sitting – going away to school meant freedom for me. It was academically rigorous, to be sure, but I’ve proved that you can waste all that in one career move into civil service. But it was so much more than academics to me. It was (limited) independence, it was first loves, it was the introduction to hitchhiking (sorry, ma), it was the introduction to activities illicit in nature (again sorry, ma) off-campus in a ditch, it was learning to play bass and lacrosse and how to take a punch. Formative? That’s an understatement at best.

And I sucked at it.

I was terrible at high school. I wasn’t popular, I wasn’t athletic, I wasn’t a hit with the ladies, nor was I outstanding academically. Mostly, I was good at being pissed off. I carried an entitled chip on my shoulder, irked at the notion that I wouldn’t be joining my classmates in Aspen because I would be busy digging ditches or working in Cayucos’ only surf shop over break. That was really, really stupid on my part. I spent time actively torching bridges instead of finding ways to finance a ski trip (hello, prostitution? Duh.) Yeah, so I scowled and glared and was, in general, a fool. Isn’t that what high school is really all about? Acting like you’re much smarter than you are and pissing off anyone older than 28?

Nervously, I anticipate the opportunity to make an ass of myself once again in a couple of years. I hope everyone shows up. I hope the cool kids aren’t too cool to make an appearance, I hope the fantabulous folks can take a break from whipping their help in The Hamptons to take the Lear Jet out west. I hope that I can just spend time catching up with people who ignored me and who I ignored and we can discus kids, receding hair lines and first loves.

And I’ll be glad to go as just Uli as opposed to Random Spouse. I heard that guy was a real asshole at his wife’s reunion.

Uli West Coast shenanigans The Wife

Who Took My Weights?

I drag my ass into “the box” (which is the cute vernacular used to identify the CrossFit Springfield gym) this morning after work. I’m late, and that’s nothing new in the least. The workout lined out for the day seems particularly brutal and completely out of attainable range (if you want to see it, look here. I won’t bore you with trying to describe the various gyrations). Lately, the ol’ relationship with the gym has been tenuous at best, despite several proclamations that it starts TODAY. TODAY is when I get back in the groove. TODAY is when I look the temptation that is bacon and beer in the eye and shoot it the bird. TODAY I stop being such a lazy fatass. Well, okay, maybe tomorrow.

See the dilemma? No?

It’s about self-loathing. It’s about the inflexible schedule known as “being a parent with kids out of school who  demand things like your ‘attention’”. But mostly, it’s about being lazy.

So what was a daily ritual of going to “the box” has become more like a recreational hobby. And, when the time came to saunter on over to The Wife’s 20 yr. high school reunion, the tragicomic results of treating it like a hobby came into laser-beam focus. I was thankful that I only knew one other person there, since it saved me the inevitable “MY GOD, you haven’t been missing many meals, have you?” conversation that take fun and awkward to a whole new level. To those people, their poor classmate simply married another fan of the Chinese buffet; to me, it was just another excuse to drink around strangers.

But I’m getting distracted here.

Today, like most days in the gym, I planned on doing the workout “non-prescribed”. What that means is, the masochists who run the joint make up a certain weight amount or form to use that they label “prescribed”. For example, the workout may call for 60 pull-ups (rx). I am good for maybe two pull-ups and then I fake it the rest of the way, using bands to assist or just crying in a puddle of shame and sweat. The prescribed version of a workout is generally reserved for the varsity level athletes, and one of the nice things about Crossfit is that they “scale” down the workouts so that someone in just about any condition can jump in and break a nasty sweat. Having never really lifted weights and having no desire to blow out a knee and toss my cookies simultaneously, I pace myself in terms of weight and form. And the truth of the matter is, I often cheat myself.

So it comes down to do you focus on quality or quantity? The workouts are generally timed, so you can post a great time if you just mash your hips into the floor and scream out and call that a push-up. Or you can take the slow train and do it right. And right there, glaring on a white board is your name, your time and if you rx’d it. No one really cares what your time is, they care what their time is, especially as compared to the group. I like to make up obnoxious times with weights that are physically impossible, just to see if trainers like ThunderChicken notice. He always does.

For reasons unknown, I stopped caring about the time component today. Maybe it was the extra pot of coffee. Maybe my brain was short circuiting in the humidity, but somewhere along the line, I decided to do the workout with prescribed weights. And it damn well killed me.

As the rest of the class was finishing up, making pretty little sweat angels on the floor, high-5-ing and heaving in labored wheezes, I wasn’t even close to done. There was no sense of grit or sand or raw determination pushing me. No “Eye Of The Tiger” playing in the background. I just wanted to do it for real. My back was shrieking as though it’d been tasered, my knees wobbled like I was trying not to crap my shorts and I was leaking sweat in reportable quantities, but I decided to truck on through. Finally, one guy was left on the floor with me, and I was using him as motivation, unbeknownst to him. Each lift he did, I was just copying him. I actually grunted like a choking troll, but was too wiped out to be embarrassed.

Finally, sweet release came as the weights smacked the floor one last time. I did it. DEAD LAST IN CLASS.

29 minutes and 50 seconds later, and with eyeballs drowning in sweat it was over. I was more than 10 minutes behind the leader, and I couldn’t have cared less. For one, glorious, heave-free moment, doubled over in front of a fan, I felt the satisfaction of doing it right

Tomorrow? There’s no telling about then. I might slip back into a more casual relationship with this whole fitness business or maybe I push myself like a lunatic again. But that moment back there, all alone in a pile of accomplished sweat stains, that was pretty awesome. And that calls for a cocktail.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, The Wife

I Can Relate. Really.

Dear Uli,

It has come to my attention that you posted an essay two days ago that was scathingly mean-spirited and caused not only hurt feelings, defensive outbursts and muttered threats, it also re-affirmed the label many have come to associate with your style of writing: condescending asshole.

So, as a response and defense of the people who you insisted could “kiss your ass”, your rational side will now argue the merits of those who you seek to defame and libel. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two; maybe you’ll continue to be a jerk, but either way, you’re gonna sit down and listen to yourself.

People You Slandered On June 7th And Their Defense

1. Those who pretend their pets are children. Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe these folks just haven’t had the opportunity to have kids yet, or even ever, whether by the choice of regularly scheduled vasectomies or by a cruel twist of fate? You didn’t once address the empty nester (ie-your mother) who finds solace and comfort in partaking in one-sided conversations with his/her furry friends. Maybe cats like to be led on leashes throughout neighborhoods. Any way you cut it, you’re being an insensitive cad for looking down your nose at animals in costume. Get a life; better yet get yourself spayed and neutered.

2. Those who have children and act as though they are the first people to have ever had them. Don’t you remember the joy of The Heathens first sleeping through the night? Didn’t you claim that it was up there with the invention of the internal combustion engine and the polio vaccine? How quickly we forget. You’re a parent, too, you putz and can’t you just, for once, allow parents the world over to share in their triumphs? Share them with any and all? Ps- you just stopped wetting the bed at 34, and yet you crow on about it day and night. Classy.

3. People with fish on their cars. It is not just any old halibut, you know. It is the Ichthus, a sacred and historic symbol meaning “fish” in Greek. Commonly seen as IXOYE, or Iota, Chi, Theta, Upsilon and Sigma, it first gained popularity in the 1st and 2nd centuries A.D., not on the back of Chevy Tahoes, as you seem to suggest. This symbol denotes a believer in Christ, not a bad driver, and nowhere in the Old Testament is this addressed, as you claim. Christians in days of old had to convey their spiritual status in a non-verbal way to avoid persecution at the hands of the Romans; Christians today would probably enjoy beating you senseless with a fish, Greek or not.

4. The Kardashians. Or any reality-television family, really. There is no argument to be made here, except that you have no scientific proof that the Kardashian girls slept with the entire Oakland Raiders Special Teams. Not even a lurid video, which, coincidentally, is what it takes to make it as a reality “star” these days. So find that tape, already.

5. Talk radio hosts. Yeah, these guys are blowhard shills for those who think Dick Cheney is really a stand-up guy, one who only shoots people in the face if they really, really deserve it. But you, sir, are a communist for suggesting that independent rational thought is the domain of silly liberal whale snugglers. And you should be shot.

6. Part time workout ninjas. Okay, you really crossed the line here, you sniveling wimp, incapable of more than two pull-ups (and that’s with a good breeze). Although you tried to weasel out of accusing fellow CrossFitters of basing all conversation on military-like acronyms (WOD? CTB? KTB? XRZXRX? Who talks like this anyways?), you’ve pissed off a lot of peers who are capable of one fingered push-ups with 45 plates on their backs. They will have their revenge, and it will come in the form of a very public humiliation.

7. People who live in heaven and insist on shoving it down your throats. Let’s just face the facts here, you jealous scumbag. You’ve left living on both the Central Coast and the State of Alaska, and now you’ve got sour grapes. There’s no denying the fact that San Diego is beautiful, just as there’s no denying the fact that you married a Springfield local. So just get over yourself and take delight in all that the Ozarks has to offer. Shut up, already.

8. Those that make kids toy packaging. Simple solution: stop drinking and trying to open kids gifts. Your slander of the toy packaging engineers will not be tolerated much longer. As well, you have no proof that they are any kinkier than the vast majority of society, so stop the implications.

9. The Lyrical Jackass. What can I say to that? You’ve pissed him off and you deserve the shunning. Embrace it. Revel in the shame of a failed friendship.

10. The doctor who’s gonna be gloved up tomorrow. Well, “tomorrow” has come and gone, and since you didn’t ask for the finger exam and you didn’t press the issue, you didn’t get the sweep. So why did you insist on screaming? Quit being such a damned baby, you’re embarrassing yourself and the fire department as a whole.

There you have it, you pretentious boob. Now, if only you’d listened to any one of your multiple personalities, perhaps you wouldn’t be so quick to generalize, stereotype and offend everyone around you. Maybe it is MY ass you should be kissing.

Always,

Uli

Uli Family DysFUNction CrossFit Craziness

Johnny says.....

1. Those who pretend their pets are children

These people are seriously off their rocker, although they are the first to insist that they are just “normal parents”. Oh yeah? Does your dachshund have teething issues that keep you up at all hours? Do you have to buy $36,000 worth of diapers for your cat? (and if you do, then I stand by my sanity statement). No. Feed the little bastards, show them some love and teach them not to crap in the house, and basically you’re set up as a pet “parent”. And dressing them up at Halloween only makes you seem a little creepy, although sometimes it comes off as very funny. You’re confusing the term “parent” with “owner”.

2. Those who have children and act as though they are the first people to have ever had them.

Segueing from my first topic, I just love it to no end when a new parent thinks anyone else in the whole world (outside of immediate family) cares when their kid takes their first dump, or sleeps through the night or “graduates” from pre-school. These are not parental breakthroughs, people. And if your kid is truly and honestly the smartest individual ever to walk the face of the earth, no other parent really wants to hear how their own kid is shamefully second-rate. So do your little Mensa dance in your own house, and let every other parent in the world think THEIR kid is the smartest one in the tri-state area.

3. People with fish on their cars.

Worst drivers ever, and usually with the road manners of a rabid wolverine. I don’t think Jesus would condone you cutting someone off and flying the bird as a symbol of victory. You wanna wear the badge of your faith on your vehicle? Then act as if Jesus really is your co-pilot, not whoever that is your chatting on your cell phone with at this very moment. The Old Testament is very clear about this.

4. The Kardashians. Or any reality-television family, really.

You people do NOTHING, and yet command an enviable salary for said skill. Somehow, it was decided to publicize every mundane moment of the lives of these people and declare that they are stars. Then, when they make a statement like “I’m just fat” or “I slept with the entire special teams division of the Oakland Raiders”, it is somehow worth print, discussion and television air time. And I hate myself even more for mentioning you here. Damn you, dark headed beautiful idiots.

5. Talk radio hosts

I’ve listened to talk radio on and off since I was eighteen, mostly because there’s really nothing worth listening to in the middle of the day, and I used to find the dialogue intriguing, if not prone to whipping me up into a political lather. Now, as I get older and a little more mellow, I realize that these chowderheads do nothing but fire people up into a frenzy and offer nothing of real value to the conversation. The ability to politicize every single event and cater to your worst fears of an impending threat of communism (Vietnam, anyone?) now just come across as whiny, pathetic attempts to profit from your ire. The BP oil fiasco is no more the fault of Obama than Katrina was the fault of Bush, and yet, there they are, assigning blame and working us into a tizzy.

6. Part time workout ninjas

You work out? That’s great. You really badass and want the world to know it? Um, ok, that’s a little much for me to admire (outside of sites dedicated to the workout. Like Crossfit. I’m talking about in social settings, so don’t jump my ass over this, Thunderchicken). I think it’s commendable that folks are out there who are genuinely improving their physical and mental well-being; I just don’t need to know the details of how much you lifted after your dentist appointment and how much you “owned” this or that. Ok, I get it. Flex your muscles, be proud, whatever, but I’ve noticed that the most fit among us rarely have to advertise it. And I count myself among the most unfit.

7. People who live in heaven and insist on shoving it down your throats

Guess what? San Diego is apparently heaven on earth. I know this because most people I know who live there and are on Facebook insist on posting photos of sunsets there and declaring how they’ve somehow staked a claim on paradise. Look, I’m not a fool: I realize how nice it is to live in Hawaii/The Hamptons/NYC, and I realize you’ve figured out how to afford it, and that’s just ducky. Just know that for someone living in Tucumcari, New Mexico, the 726th photo from your condo showing the waves breaking at sunset may be just the trigger for him/her to begin a homicidal rampage. Don’t be a d-bag….chuckle amongst yourselves at cocktail parties about how “the other half” lives and leave the rest of us alone.

8. Those that make kids toy packaging

Just how much theft of toys is happening in stores that their designers require parents to have a mechanical engineering degree to liberate the crappy plastic gift from its crappy plastic packaging? I have to use a Leatherman tool, tin snips and my oxy-acetylene torch rig during the holidays just to hasten the process. There is enough sealed plastic and twist ties to make me believe that there are some kinky mofo’s in charge of packaging. Creepy bastards.

9. The Lyrical Jackass

He knows why.

10. The doctor who’s gonna be gloved up tomorrow

As part of the Fire Department HazMat physical I’m taking in the morning, I get the ol’ exploratory sweep. There’s nothing pleasant about that for anyone involved, but there will be screaming. I’m getting all clammy and my knees are sweating just thinking about it.

Uli Wandering Ponderings "Ryan" the Sadist