Half Past Awesome

"Ryan" getting deep into it

A few nights ago I experienced a first. While awaiting our turn “in the box” at the CrossFit gym, three guys who are varsity-caliber athletes were in a training evolution that mandated taking their shirts off and tossing heavy weights around as casually as I might flick away a sweaty towel. Of course, “Ryan” was a part of this group. It turns out that these boys are competing in CrossFit regional feats of manliness in St. Louis over the weekend (see here) and are shoveling in last minute workouts to fine tune their grunts and wheezes.

MEANWHILE, the working class mortals (the rest of us) were getting our warmups in before another session of torture, when, out of nowhere, I start hearing some cat-calls. And, no, it wasn’t callous dudes whistling at the women in the gym – rather, out of nowhere, a couple of the ladies were verbally swooning over these muscle-y he-men as they pounded out one lift after another. And, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the Wife, who was NOT there for a workout (but to pick up the boys), hanging around, just to, in her words, “check it all out”. Her version of “checking it all out” involves her jaw hanging slack with a little drool coming out of the corner while these taut bastards are hefting the iron.

From the far side of the group my buddy’s MOM Beth says “Hey, how can I concentrate with all this Man Candy happening?” This was answered by a bunch of agreement in the form of cackles and hoots by the ladies and none of which was noticed by the lifters; it went over like a turd in a punchbowl to the rest of us boys in the group.

“Sorry Beth, I’ll try to reign it in!” I shouted back at her, as though she were referring to my self-perceived manliness. This at least earned a chuckle from the rest of us emasculated-types. I feel a need to stick up for us, the muscle-challenged. The workout continued in earnest, with the guys focusing on strength and form and the ladies focusing on the bodies of the bad-asses working out behind us. Inspiration through envy I suppose.

After the class, I caught up with Beth as she was describing her feelings about either the workout or tax laws, I couldn’t really tell. Nonetheless, I apologized for distracting her with my distinct lack of muscles and excess body hair. I can’t help it if I toss manly pheromones out like so much candy at a parade. It’s not my fault. She just laughed at me, dismissively. She said to her conversational partner, “Oh yeah, this is Uli, you should read his stuff, it’s really funny.” Although thankful for the compliment, when I step into the gym, it’s all about making my body look less like melting wax and more like chiseled cheese.

It must be time to come to terms with reality.

So I looked her right in the eye, and I said, I says, “those boys may be Man-Candy, but I’m Intellectual Man-Candy, and you can’t find that in any old gym. Take a moment and drink it all in”. I then attempted to flex my giant hair as if to prove how big my brains are. It ended up looking more like I was suffering an aneurysm, which in turn led to more laughter.

I just can’t win.

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

Hey.

I had a funny essay started earlier.

It was entitled “Intellectual Man Candy”, and I swear, it’ll make you laugh.

But I can’t finish it right now.

Know how I know?

I mis-spelled the word “jet” and “stalker” earlier. (Let’s not get into the hows and whys with regards to my use of both words, okay?)

How for the love of all things good in this world can you not spell “jet”?

I’ve slept for 13 hours, and still look and feel like I’ve gone three rounds with “Ryan” the Sadist at CrossFit.

I think it’s a cross between swine-flu, TB, hypochondria and a touch of imagined herpes.

But I’m not a doctor.

I think it would be best if I held off on posting until I’m not under the influence of cut-rate Day-Quil and bad coffee.

At least I should be able to spell by then.

Uli Uncategorized "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness

The topic sent out by the Springfield Blogger’s Association for discussion was “Taking Time To Blog”; I guess we’re supposed to wax idiotic on the hows and whens of filling our sites with our ramblings. Half Past Awesome is, without a doubt, the number one consumer of my misfiring synapses in terms of idling away free moments. In order to come up with something humorous, I pore over miles of internet detritus and hours of wasted conversations around the firehouse. Since I’m a firm believer that truth is funnier than fiction, I try and limit my reality-bending to a bare minimum, and this takes a huge amount of my time. Once the idea has been hatched, the usual time frame from first sentence to final edit is anywhere from 20min. to an hour. Weird, right?

Given that writing is something I actually really, really like doing, I’m able to waste ridiculous amounts of time cranking out one worthless essay after another. The edit and unpublished section on my dashboard always has about a dozen screeds on it, waiting for the right moment to be dropped at the opportune moment. And truth be told, a good chunk of the time on an essay is spent perusing Google images for just the right pic to fit the essay. Except for today, as you can tell.

Having the attention span of a fly doesn’t help, either, but once in a while I’m able to snag one of the dozens of wild thoughts crashing around my head and get it down on virtual paper. And, once in a while, I hope it makes you laugh.

Uli Tales of Misery

Motivation. Where do we find it? Some people say it has to come from within. I’d like to hit those people with a brick pillow. Of course, that’s just the jealousy talking, but I stand by that statement. Somewhat like hearing how my brothers et al are enduring “horrible” weather in Southern California when it drops to 50 degrees, I tend to discount motivational philosophy that comes from the fabulously successful; although this seems counter intuitive,  when you see people who are already wealthy talk about how motivated they are to earn more wealth, this just comes across as hoarding behavior to me.

I think we find motivation in the most unlikely of places.

• Observe the fellow on the highway off-ramp who glares at you with the intensity of a thousand white hot suns while holding out a can and demanding you help him. This guy has a 999% failure rate, rejected by the masses and dismissed by most as a lazy bum, but really, he is the penultimate salesman. If he can convince you to give him money and said money really is helping towards filling a mysteriously absent gas tank, he could easily sell ketchup popsicles to women in white gloves.

• The meteorologists here in the Midwest take a near-Biblical level beating every time they predict the next maelstrom of death and destruction. But yet, there they are, weather system after weather system, driven by unseen forces to work you into a lather over the coming apocalypse. They’re playing the odds, and they always get screwed by the house, and still, they keep plugging away with little more than a shrug of the shoulders each time the storm misses by just that much.

• I have a neighbor who is literally living in his shop with approximately 1.4 million 45 records. That’s not an exaggeration I’m employing here, that’s the real number by his own exhaustive count. I’ve seen it. Coupled with 13 jukeboxes (six of which are functional), Wild Bill spends his “free time” (of which there is no limit) sorting and organizing his albums and is the closest thing I know to a uber-rural millionaire. Yes, he eats expired food from vending machines and wears softball cleats as casual footwear, but he is motivated by the belief that there is intrinsic value in 45’s. He is also motivated to bang metal off of wood while sporting a butchers’ hard hat; as well he collects old election posters and empty pop cans , but that is beside the point.

• Year after year Eddie Murphy takes part in some sort of cinematic train wreck that we’re supposed to buy into due to it’s rating as “family friendly”. Gone are the days of “Raw” and “Trading Places” and instead we’re treated to “The Nutty Professor 7: Revenge Of The Flubber”. I think it all began with “Coming To America” or his foray into pop radio with “(My Girl Wants To) Party All The Time”, but nonetheless he has gone from being the funniest son of a gun in comedy to a guy who’s next step will be doing local ads for ambulance-chasing lawyers. And he’s still out there, churning out one flaming turd of a movie after another. One word: motivated.

• And for the last word in motivation? One need look no further than the zealots of this world. No matter their cause, be it proving that the President is a Kansas-born terrorist without a birth certificate or that dinosaurs are the creation of the liberal-media sponsored devil himself, few are as passionate and driven to launch out of bed each day as those residents of the lunatic fringe. We could all learn a lesson from the maniacal despots and nut-job conspiracy theorists of the world. And that lesson would be to never, ever give up, even in the face of logic and fact.

Something to think about the next time you’re not so inclined to do what needs to be done. Now go carpe the crap outta that diem.

Uli Wandering Ponderings

As of late, there has been some concern with regards to my ongoing detente with the trainer at CrossFit known as “Ryan”. In an effort to further defame his character, I did a little research. It turns out that “Ryan” is not only a sadistic trainer by day, he is also an MMA fighter when the opportunity arises. A glance at YouTube shows one of his matches, one which I happened to attend long before I knew him. While he was down in the ring beating the holy bejeezus out of this guy (see here.…he’s the one in white shorts) I was up in the stands getting sloshed on overpriced donkey piss being passed off as beer. Perhaps this bit of information would have come in handy before I challenged him to a sumo-suit style match today (an example of which can be seen here). I need to determine which discipline in which I might be able to best this killer of men, because in the arena of physical prowess, I’ll be left in a big ol’ puddle of pummeled mess.

Time to take stock. I somehow doubt the city will allow me to hijack two fire department ladder trucks and issue a “race for glory” style test of manhood down the mean streets of Springfield. Nor could I ask him to deal with an unhinged meth-head wearing a chili-dog wrapper as a hat while claiming ownership of the dumpster behind the firehouse……these kinds of events don’t occur with enough consistency to hold his attention. Clearly, “Ryan” has the ability to crush me physically and he’s getting his masters degree in something, or so I’m told, thereby eradicating my ability to wipe the floor with him in a round of Celebrity Jeopardy. These are the kind of dilemmas that keep my cocktail tumbler full. My stress level was reaching red-line levels when I realized that the only dimension in which I could beat this man was in a bacon eating contest. As a child, I would eat raw bacon for sport. As an adult, I’ve been known to floss with bacon. When it comes to the fruit of the pig, few can match my ability to ingest such mass quantities of fried pork. I’m not proud of this fact. Also, there seems to be a very slim chance that frying bacon would be allowed at the gym, so again, another roadblock.

I can’t beat the man with wicked sarcasm and under-appreciated smart-assedness. No matter how many times I can dead-lift a broomstick, I won’t command his respect until somewhere near 300lbs. is on the bar. He’s not intimidated by my excessive body hair nor impressed by my ability to break a sweat just thinking about breaking a sweat.

And then it came to me in a flash of clairvoyance that can only come after several adult beverages……..what if I actually listened to “Ryan” and stopped trying engage him in this war of wills? What if it turns out that he’s not the devil incarnate but merely a man trying to better his fellow travelers through the regimen of physical fitness? How about enough bitching and on to lifting? Wouldn’t that be a better alternative than trying to undermine him as a trainer, a human, a person who cares about the physical well-being of his charges? Sweet Jews for Jesus, am I finally growing up?

Nah – that’s gotta be the rum talking. The plotting continues…….

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, Add new tag, CrossFit Craziness

“What’s it like to be inside a burning house?” After more than a decade in the fire service, I’ve found that this is one of the top three questions people have when they find out what I do for a living.  Structure fires are a part of the job, and I suppose it’s a fair question; it just really doesn’t cross my mind much anymore. I guess the reason I like posting up about firehouse life more than life in a house fire is that it’s always funnier to BE a fireman than it is to be fighting fire. Plus, it’s damn well impossible to write about with any consistency since every fire is different. One has to be really careful in descriptions about situation “mitigation” because, as firefighters, one of our primary jobs is to drop the Bullshit Flag on our peers anytime their stories use words like “brave” or, the very worst of ALL descriptors we can use – “HERO”. In fact if ANY one of our co-workers uses this word in ANY way to describe him/herself, we are morally obligated to punch the offender right in the mouth, and refer to that person as a “delusional asshole” for the rest of their career.

So, to answer the question without seeming flippant or full of crap, I tell them the best description I’ve come up with: put a black garbage bag over your head, fill it with smoke and crank up the heat and you’ll get the basic idea. What Top Gun did for portraying all fighter pilots as short, ill-tempered young Scientologists, movies like Backdraft and Ladder 49 have done little to temper the fantasy of fighting fire with any sort of reality. A more accurate description could be found in Star Wars, where the protagonists are sloshing about in the trash compactor of a spaceship. Add some acrid smoke and a little more chaos and you’re pretty close. All the training in the world can’t prepare you for the dismal fact of crawling around blind, looking for a distant glow, or worse, a person. Much like CPR has been described by some medics as “the ritual flogging of the dead”, on the rare occasion that a person is pulled from a fire and survives, we’re as relieved and surprised as anyone.

That’s probably why we’ve developed such a macabre sense of humor; it’s a screwy coping mechanism for dealing with the improbable scenarios we encounter, and it can come across to outsiders as insular behavior. As much as I can try and understand what it was like for my brothers and friends who’ve gone and fought in Afghanistan and Iraq, the truth is that I’m only imagining the horror, the fear, the boredom. And that’s why those vets understand one another better than anyone else does, and I can appreciate that fact. In the same fashion, there’s something about bumbling through some meth freaks domicile on a snowy Christmas Eve, tripping over hose and dragging through trash and filth that allows us to bond with one another. You’re not thinking about the danger, you’re wondering what in the hell possesses these people to live like this. And, if you happen to be crawling towards the fire and encounter some bizarre sex toy, you’re expected to pass it back to the guy behind you and ask if he lost something out of his coat. That sort of behavior would make my mother die of a shame-induced aneurysm, but in our world, it’s unofficial standard operating procedure.

The fact remains that for whatever reason we got into this line of work, we like to claim that we stay for the schedule, the benefits, the job security that comes with a never-ending list of people who get themselves into trouble, whatever. But the truth is that when the tones go off and we strap the black garbage bags over our heads, there’s nothing that beats the feeling of heading into chaos with people we can call our friends. At the very least, we’re looking for some piece of discarded trash to abuse one another with; if we’re lucky, we’ll get to do our jobs right and someones bad day is made just a little better.

Uli Siren Songs

What is the measure of a man? This is a question that has eluded philosophers, teachers, coaches and the IRS for generations, and I think I’ve found the answer. It’s around 45 pounds. How can I say this with such certainty? Because that is the precise weight of a lifting bar. You know what I’m talking about, one of those contraptions that metal plates are affixed to and then lifted, hefted and tossed about the gym. As it so happens, these bars are extremely prolific, and I have yet to go to a gym that did not employ several of them as a means by which to intimidate and abuse paying customers. Not coincidentally, I think said bars are also a tool of the devil, although the science behind that theory is still a little shaky.

Yesterdays workout at the Springfield CrossFit gym involved lifting these bars in a movement known as a “clean”. I’d describe it to you, but that would be akin to me describing cold fusion principles: I’d just be making it up. Here’s the downside of all this business – outside of some lame attempts in the past to bench press and curl, I’ve never in my life lifted weights, so I lack what some call “proper form”. Roughly translated, what this means is that while all the other people are pushing around the iron and getting all pumped up, I’m having fits in the corner and risking some serious back injury while making all the noises I assume you’re supposed to make while lifting weights. I don’t know, I’m just faking it the whole time. I grunt and heave and sweat a lot, but really, nothing’s getting done.

Unfortunately for me, this does not go un-noticed by the sadists, aka trainers, here at CrossFit. In order to protect his identity, I’ll call the trainer from yesterday “Ryan”, since his real name sounds exactly like that, but with a “B”.  So anyways, “Ryan” didn’t waste much time in sending me to my own corner of the mat and make demands that I show him my “form” with regards to this “clean” lift. Using only the bar. What follows does not please him, and I am guessing that is because it resembles the mating dance of an irritated baboon. Face red, sweat running down my leg hair, I set the bar back down with a self satisfied look on my face while “Ryan” looks at me as though he just caught me making love to trash can. He’s incredulous. I’m good with it. And ne’er the two shall meet. He spends the next half hour keeping tabs of my form, taking enough time out of coaching others to yell at me “ULI! Again! No, I don’t care about your “feelings”! AGAIN!“ (or something to that effect). I tried to shake my fist at him, but by this time, I’ve no strength left. It looks more like some sort of limp-wristed wave, matching nicely with the drool leaking out of the corner of my mouth. He continued to glare at me as though seriously considering outfitting me with a helmet to wear. He seemed to take offense that I refused to “open my hips” for him during these lifts, and that’s just because I’m not that kind of guy. I’m no man-slut, no exceptions; just ask anyone. No, scratch that, just take my word for it.

I can see that this “Ryan” character is not going to buy any of my formless bullshit, so I try in earnest to do it right. Out of 743 attempts I get it right exactly three times. That’s a number I can live with. “Ryan” can’t. The war of wills is going to be an ongoing engagement – but I recently recieved vital information that shall give me an unmistakeable advantage. Apparently he harbors an unhealthy fear of lobsters. No idea why, but when I head into the gym tonight? You bet your ass I’ll be toting a couple of fresh cockroaches of the ocean, one under each arm, ready to again do battle. And this time I’ll be sure to use the proper form.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, Add new tag, CrossFit Craziness

Note – this essay will make no sense to you whatsoever if you don’t use the social media site known to the world as “Facebook” and known to me as “The Book Of Faces”. If you don’t participate, then kindly return to whatever it was you were doing before stumbling across this site. Thank you.

For a while now, I’ve been wasting colossal amounts of time on Facebook, catching up with people I see on a regular basis, those I haven’t seen in thirty years and everyone in between. Much like karaoke has done for justifying the tone deaf singing in public, Facebook has allowed for behavior that should never see the light of day. I’m not talking about men in their fifties becoming collective fans of titillating groups with names like “Boobies” or “Girls Who Put Out On The First Date”; I’m more disturbed by how many people make themselves look like complete ignoramuses with their status updates and replies to other peoples status. In service to the greater good, I’ve compiled a short checklist to determine if you are, indeed, a Facebook Dirtbag. Are you one of these people? If so, you need to change your ways, post haste, my friend.

• The Cryptic Status-Updater. This person thinks they’re dangling a real gem in front of cyberspace with updates such as “no one knows pain like this” or “why do people insist on playing games?” In truth, they’re just a modern-day incarnation of the goth-teen who proclaimed that no one except Morrissey or Robert Smith of The Cure understood their inner torment. Yeah, we got your pain, we just don’t paint our faces white and scribble the anarchy sign all over our notebooks. Either elaborate on what’s causing you this supposed suffering or keep it to your damn self. I, and the rest of the world, aren’t interested in solving your romantic riddles, and your martyrdom isn’t helping your image as a Dirtbag.
• The Excessively Long Poster. When the “see more” option comes up on your status update (not replies), you are getting too long winded. Tell me your dog died, and that’s enough. I don’t need his eulogy as a status update. So wrap it up, there, Wordy McWordleson, get off of Facebook and go dwell on your anguish.
• The Lord Of The Obvious. I know there was an earthquake in Haiti. Everyone does. And while it sucks, and it’s charitable of you to donate $10 via text, merely writing “Haiti “ isn’t helping anyone at all, and it doesn’t make you a more compassionate person.
• The  Fabulous Smarmy Putz. So you woke up to yet another beautiful morning of four feet of fresh powder in Aspen? Did Jimmy Buffett come sing at your birthday party thrown on Diddy’s yacht off the coast of Antigua? Are you trying to decide what dress to wear to the Golden Globes, because, dammit, you will NOT be seen in the same thing that tramp Tina Fey is wearing? WHAT THE F**K ARE YOU TRYING TO COMPENSATE FOR? I CAN’T HELP YOU, AND I’M NOT IMPRESSED, SO KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF!! By the way, no one else is impressed, either, because we remember you when you used to walk to the chalkboard with a boner/training bra showing.
• I’m A Fan Of/Like EVERYthing! While it’s imperative that you become a fan of Half Past Awesome in order to maintain elite status in your local community, when you become a fan of “Hitting The Delete Button Three Times And Then The Space Bar And Then Remembering Where You Put Your Car Keys On Mondays”, I tend to think you are also a fan of such mind-blowing entities as “Television” and “Not Dying” and “The Color Blue”. As well, “liking” things such as updates that say “I almost died on the commute home today” makes me question your overall sanity. Again – cool to be a fan of “ShitMyDadSays” on Twitter, not cool to “like” the update “I’m thinking of ending it all today”.
• The Slayer of Spelling. This person can’t be bothered with the other two letters in the word “you” and they just utilize “u”. And if you’re over thirteen? This is totally unacceptable. I just picture some moronic twit writing “u r hott” when you speak like this on The Book Of Faces. OMG! ROFL! LOL! LMFAO!!(by the way, unless you really are rolling on the floor laughing, you’re just lying to me, and that pisses me off, too.)
• The All-Business Pimp. Look, I understand you’re trying to get your business either off the ground or expanded, but really? Is the only thing you have to offer the world your shade-tree mechanic skills, selling transmission repairs at deep discount? Listen, we’re already friends, and if I need cut-rate tax preparation, chances are I’m gonna use you anyways. So enough with the sales pitch, let me know something interesting about YOU, not your mobile cat-washing services. To be perfectly honest, you’re starting to look a little sleazy.
• The Evangelist. While living here in the Bible belt does lend itself to a plethora of folks in the business of salvation via social media proselytizing, there seems to be no limit to the lines people cross in the name of their faith. I realize you hate homosexuality/Obama/abortion/rock & roll music, but for the love of Christ, this is supposed to be a fun place to hang out. While shaking your fist at those who have a faith other than yours makes for a compelling Bible study group topic, you just come across as a member of a lunatic fringe when your entire resume of status updates is comprised of your devotion to messianic fervor. And yes, I know lightning will strike me down soon for saying this.

So there you have it. If you don’t fall into any of these eight catagories, by all means, continue to post on a regular basis. If you do, please take the time to carefully consider your approach to this wide open cyberspace – there’s no need to be a d-bag if you can help it. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I am a Dirtbag of monumental proportions. How do I know? My wife takes every opportunity to point this fact out on Facebook, and it is therefore internet Gospel. Lord, help me.

Uli Amigos

People of the interwebs: check out this guys’ site if you’re a fan of The Onion-style infotainment and live in the Springfield area:

Fair City News

It’s written by Chad Harris, a friend I met through the local bloggers association and the dude is flat out hilarious (look him up on Facebook if you hang out there). He’s also let me guest post two articles that you may find entertaining. This first was written around the holidays and you can find it here. It deals with an informal poll taken at a local bar.

The second one was published today and concerns local politics and towns with the name of Springfield. Read it here.

Recently a reluctant-to-admit-Half Past Awesome reader came up to me in Patton Alley Pub, and after the usual pleasantries were exchanged she says, “well, I’ve been reading your site, and I hate to admit it, but you’re funny. But it’s just a little…….you know……”

“No, I said, “I don’t know. I need you to finish this statement. It’s what? Sucky? Too low-brow? Sophmoric? Too many pop culture references? Too snarky? Too negative?” (all statements that I’ve heard, mostly from other firemen).

“No, no, I mean, that’s all true, but no, your site is, you know…….kinda self absorbed.”

Wow. Ok, so there has been a distinct lack of Mother Teresa’s influence on the site, I guess.  I’m not really sure what a site devoted to my attempts to humor you should be absorbed with, and I asked her this question. Her response?

“You know, I don’t know. It’s just, you know kinda full of you.”

Gotcha. I’m beginning to think she’s lying, because the stories rarely end with me looking anything less than a total jackass, so I took the opportunity to squint my eyes, real Clint Eastwood-like, and ask in a disbelieving voice

“Huh? How many beers have you had J—-?”

I was then universally dismissed with the wave of the hand and an utterance of “whatever” while she rejoined her party on the other side of the bar. I headed back to the table of amigos and was devestated for a whole two minutes, until the next pint of Guinness came my way.

My point? I want you to consider, for a moment, that I am the sponge and I am the spilled juice and therefore I’m writing all of this as a means of absorbing myself. But mostly, I just want to make you laugh a little. Enjoy the reading.

Uli Tales of Misery

Hello, comrade.

In the past year, you’ve taken to writing to me, or more specifically, my site here, in order to establish some sort of relationship. For reasons unknown, all of your correspondence comes to the spam section of Half Past Awesome, but believe you me, I’m getting all of your letters. EVERY SINGLE ONE. While I’m so flattered that you want to be my digital pen-pal, there’s just one small hitch. I DON’T SPEAK RUSSIAN, YOU SOVIET CHOWDERHEAD!

Sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled like that. You’re just trying to talk to me about God Knows What, and here I am screeching at you because of my inability to embrace the silky Russian dialect. I regret to inform you, that while you’re being relegated to the spam filter of cyberspace, you’re in pretty shady company. Apparently there are several people with names with no vowels out there sending me messages about whitening my teeth and increasing my penis size. I’m not sure who DR.XRFlyWE&67@dentalisme.com is, but he seems a little less than genuine in his communiques. How am I to know if he really cares about my dental well being or he’s just saying that to anyone who dwells out here in cyberspace? I’m not putting him on the Christmas Card list this year, not until I see some more sincerity out of him, that much is certain.

No, he’s not like you my Bolshevik “моя родруга”, what with your fancy Cyrillic alphabet and lots of underlined words as you try and reach out to me here in the middle of America, desperate for international flavor here in the Ozarks. What’s your name? I can’t decipher it beyond a series of mismatched consonants and numbers. Is it Irina? Are you picturing us in coffee shops on opposite sides of the world, connecting over a series of philosophies and worldviews, becoming soul mates despite the miles and apparent language barrier? My little babushka, you do know I’m married, right? The Wife cannot ever find out about our forbidden exchanges. But you already know this don’t you? THAT must be why every entry is sent to my spam box. Oh, you’re a crafty little Russian fox, no? Wait. I just checked over in the mailbox, and there’s not ONE SINGLE MESSAGE, much less 14, waiting for me, from you. WHAT THE HELL, YOU TWO TIMING COSSACK TRAMP? ARE YOU SENDING MESSAGES TO OTHER GUYS TOO? YOU SIBERIAN SLUT!!

Again, a thousand apologies, I just thought that we really…….I dunno…..connected. I’m waiting here, patiently, my Irina. I’m holding out against hope that what you really want is to be my special friend, that beneath all of that Soviet-style psychobabble, you’re not trying to hawk homeopathic alternatives to Valium. I’d be devestated. Crushed. My hopes for a tawdry forbidden affair would go to my own private gulag.

I only have one question left for you to answer, my sweet little Muscovite. After your last message, I hastily looked up what you’d written to me…..and it turns out that  “Вы имеете большие сиськи” translates into “you have big boobs”. So I’m left with the burning question – how did you get a picture of me without a shirt on, you filthy bird?

Lovingly yours,

me

Uli Wandering Ponderings The Wife