Babies

Babies are adorable in moderation. Because they are lacking in social skills and general politeness, they do not know what moderation means. Also because they do not speak English. Sometimes, howerver, moderation will simply not do; babies are not needed at all. The following is a list of places I do not want to see babies anymore.

Grocery Store

Inside a Bag of Cereal

Quizno's

Working at a Quizno's

On a Sandwich Made at Quizno's

Riding a Dog Like a Horse

Inside a Basket Left On My Doorstep

Laundromat

Laundromat Parking Lot Playing Craps Looking Shady as Shit

Stuck Inside a Tree Trying to Get Honey a la Winnie the Pooh

On the Street Working as a Circus Barker

Barbershop

Barbershop 2: Back in Business

Police Interrogation Room During 'Good Cop, Baby Cop' Routine

In a Car as a Designated Driver

Dressed as Fruit Inside a Fruit Basket

Leading a Mosh Pit

On a Rollercoaster

Starting Power Forward For the Phoenix Suns

Operating a Rollercoaster

Inside a Basket Left On My Doorstep With a Heartfelt Note Saying That the Mother Loves the Baby With All Her Heart But She Is Incapable of Providing For Him and Prays That I Can Give Him the Type of Home He Needs

 

Department of Batman's Motor Vehicles

On a Cruise Ship

On a Somali Pirate Ship Boarding a Cruise Ship

On a Space Pirate Ship Boarding the International Space Station

Seriously Stop Fucking Leaving Babies On My Doorstep, There Are a Bunch of Cats in My Neighborhood and If I'm Not Home When You Drop Off the Baby He/She Will Almost Definitely Be Attacked By Cats

Erotica

James: 1-2-3-thrust! 1-2-3-thrust! 1-2-3-thrust! 1-2-

Mary: What are you doing?

J: I'm having sex with you.

M: No, no I can see that. Why are you counting?

J: To maintain an acceptable rhythm. I've learned that women love a proper rhythm.

M: Ok. Maybe... a faster rhythm?

J: 1-2-thrust?

M: It's a start.

 

[After some gentle thrusting]

J: Are you ok?

M: I'm fine.

J: How is my level of gentleness?

M: It's fine.

J: Should I be more gentle?

M: Less gentle, if anything.

J: If you insist.

[James increases speed of tempo to 1-thrust]

J: Bless you.

M: I didn't sneeze.

J: It looked like you were about to.

M: You say bless you before someone sneezes?

J: Preemptive blessing, yes.

M: Well, not to worry. I won't be sneezing anytime soon.

[Silence]

J: Are you about to sneeze now?

M: I don't think so.

J: Ok.

[Silence]

J: It's just you scrunched up your face a bit, like you were about to sneeze.

M: I'm not abou- HACHOO!

J: Bless you.

[Silence]

M: Thank you. Sorry for sneezing on your face.

J: It's fine. You didn't have a lot of mucus so it wasn't that bad.

M: It's because I took allergy medicine before you came over.

J: Wise. Shall we try a different position?

M: Wouldn't hurt.

J: If it does hurt please do not hesitate to let me know immediately.

[Both move around uncomfortably]

J: What position would you like?

M: Um, I don't know.

J: We could... go back to missionary.

M: Doggy. We will try doggy style.

J: Very well.

 

[Mary rests on her knees, waiting]

J: I am having reservations about this 'doggy style.'

M: What? Why?

J: I just... I just feel it reinforces archaic patriarchal stereotypes and paints you as uncharacteristically submissive.

M: I don't even-

J: You are a strong black woman! You deserve to be treated as such!

M: I'm Thai, actually.

J: Oh.

[Silence]

J: You're Thai?

M: Yes. My parents were born in Pattaya.

J: Well, as a strong cisgender woman of color I feel I am doing you a disservice by employing the doggy style technique.

M: You're not, honest. I assure you I have never felt more liberated than I do now.

J: ...really?

M: Really. This place is a place of love.

J: We are in the Loss Prevention office of a Wal Mart.

 

M: Yes. It is Loss Prevention, not Love Prevention. We are here because we love each other, and because we both had the same schedule today. Now please, would you kindly put your penis back inside my vagina?

[1 minute later]

J: How does it feel?

M: It feels al- HACHOO!

J: Bless you.

M: Thank you.

Looney

It was another miserable, rainy day in this miserable, rainy city. After running the beat for 12 years I'm actually upset when it isn't raining. 12 years. Every time I think of quitting the force, my good buddy Johnnie Walker calms me down. I take one last shot of whiskey before I grab my coat and head out the door. I was meeting Gomez over by ACME Tools. Phoned me earlier, something about a possible murder. Heh. In this city, there is no possible murder. Just murder.

I arrive in front of ACME Tools and the coats are already hauling the poor bastard off. Gomez is surveying the scene. He's always first to the scene.

"Glad you could join us, O'Malley. I was getting lonely." Always a smartass, too.

"Can it, Gomez. What've we got?"

"Well," he lights a cigarette, "seems like we got ourselves a classic case of wrong place at the wrong time."

 

I take in the area as Gomez continues. Directly in front of ACME Tools are the remains of a piano, presumably a piano that fell some distance. I look up to see the still dangling rope from where it snapped. "By wrong place you mean here, and wrong time you mean now?"

 

He stares blankly. "What the f- yeah. Yeah, that's what I'm getting at."

 

"I'm guessing this here piano crushed the man being hauled off right now. Any witnesses?"

 

"A few, still a little rattled. That dame over there gave me the rundown. At about 10:43 AM a one Mr. Wile E. Coyote enters ACME Tools. Owner says he was looking for a giant catapult to, and I quote, 'end that insufferable bird once and for all.'"

 

"Looks like the bird lives to fight another day," I say smugly. The only part of this job I don't hate is that I can be smug pretty much non-stop.

 

"Yeah. Well, owner tells Coyote that they don't sell catapults, so he ends up leaving the store somewhat irate. Witnesses say that right when he walked outside he barely dodged a runaway wedding cake on a cart by jumping right here," Gomez motions to where the piano lays. "He was heard saying 'boy, that was a close one,' seconds before this piano landed on him."

 

Looking up at the rope again I check for signs of foul play. After being distracted by a few clouds I stop checking for signs of foul play. "Where was the piano being moved to?"

 

"Third floor, ACME Music. Movers say the rope just snapped. Freak accident." It's my experience in this town that there are only freaks, no accidents. "Luckily, or unluckily, however you please, the piano didn't kill him. Witnesses say it just turned him into a giant accordion, his teeth replaced by piano keys for some reason."

 

"He had visible music notes swirling around his head, huh?" I know how this goes.

 

As does Gomez. He nods while lighting another cigarette, his first still burning in his left hand. "Yup. Coyote then stumbles around in a daze, mumbles something about forgetting to bring his sheet music, and heads south on Mulberry. That's when this safe fell on him." Gomez walks a little ways off to the opposite side of the building where, sure enough, a safe sits firmly rooted into the concrete.

 

"Being moved up to ACME Banking?"

 

"Being moved up to ACME Banking. Fourth floor." Looks like Life was selling sandwiches for a nickel and Coyote didn't even have a penny. "Somehow he managed to open the safe from the inside, and immediately vomited out gold coins and dollar bills. Why he ate them in the first place we'll never know."

 

I begin to think if this is mere coincidence, two foreign objects landing on one man mere seconds apart, or the endgame of a far more sinister plot. Thinking hurts my head. Knew I should've brought my whiskey. "So the musical notes floating around his head, still there?"

 

"Replaced by floating cash registers and dollar signs. That dame I told you about earlier was going to run over and check on him when she heard a Falling Whistle Sound Effect™. Stopped, looked up, and watched. This is what did the poor bastard in."

 

Gomez motions to just behind the safe as he lights a third cigarette, one for his mouth and each hand. I told him those things will kill him, and I think he mistook it for encouragement. As I look just past the safe, I feel stupid for not having seen this coming.

 

"The old fashioned skydiver-with-a-bag-filled-with-silverware-and-utensils-instead-of-a-parachute, huh? Eighth one this month." All of those jumpers had jumped out of planes owned by ACME Aviation. The mangled corpse of the skydiver was just now being attended to by paramedics. Spoons, forks, knives, and a few broken plates lay around his corpse. Of course, the only one eating fat after a snafu like this is Lady Death.

 

"When the skydiver, who we're still trying to ID, fell on Coyote they were both killed instantly. A real bloodbath, partner." Gomez shakes his head, hands on his hips. Not so much out of disbelief but relief. He knows that in this city, this accident could have been much worse. "Honestly we're lucky we know this much. Most witnesses only saw the piano bit but the dame over the way saw the whole thing. Said she was only here because she made a wrong turn at Albuquerque."

 

I stop dead in my tracks. It appears the plot has thickened.

Shooter

I am always hesitant to write on topical subjects. A political gaffe, celebrity snaffu, sporty sports thing, all of these seem rather temporal. To me such subjects are in direct conflict with the inherent endurance of the written word, and far be it from me to betray its will. Until recently the subject of mass shootings would be lumped with the aforementioned topics. Tragic and troubling yes, but not something that happens with great frequency. Unfortunately one cannot go more than two weeks without reading about a disgruntled psychopath taking a gun and indiscriminately killing innocents. Such violence has become endemic of the Western world, America in particular. I can think of no better allegory for the moral decay of our society and desensitization of the individual than a mass shooting.

By now we all know the drill. Someone with severe mental illness who clearly had no business owning a gun takes to the streets, crazed manifesto left behind more so out of obligation than desire to be understood. I mean, c'mon, have you ever read one of those things? These dudes don't even proofread their shit. Bang bang, X amount of people dead, community in mourning, President sends condolences in between holes 11 and 12, yadda yadda. After offing themselves or getting gunned down by cops having their most fun in years, the locals are left only a few brief moments of quiet, organic grieving. Once the initial tragedy is over a more protracted and artificial one rises from its ashes like the lamest fucking phoenix you have ever seen.

Camera crews from across the nation pour into whatever sleepy town is still reeling from having members of their community slaughtered. National pundits summon hours of looking-somber practice as they look somber, a grieving parent pleads for stricter gun controls, a cartoonishly conservative NRA representative demands looser gun controls, Wolf Blitzer watches over it all with the glazed eyes of one who has seen much suffering. Or one who works at CNN.

What is it about mass shooters that makes network news eat up every case like a fat kid eating... like, way too much food and stuff? (I don't know what it is recently but I can't make fat people analogies to save my life. Swear to god I used to knock that shit out of the park.) It can't just be the death toll, since the average network news ticker will casually sneak in the 900 brown people from Brownpeopleiztan killed in a tsunami in between news of a stupid cute puppy doing something stupid cute and Selena Gomez farting. Natural disasters do not illicit the type of tragedy-induced-news-watching the media loves to pump out, and neither do acts of terrorism in countries not America. An American mass shooting strikes all the perfect chords needed to sing a song of sorrow. Not too far away to seem irrelevant, not too close to seem urgent. Not too fast to seem accidental, not too protracted to seem institutional. 

As mentioned earlier, usually just after the tragedy has occurred a tearful parent or significant other or life coach will plead, demand for tighter restrictions on gun laws so as to avert further loss of life. One must question the sincerity of these people. So you didn't give two shits about gun rights until your child/spouse/life coach was killed? That's like those people who have a relative who falls ill to some rare disease and then start a charity or raise awareness to find a cure for said rare disease. They don't really want a cure, they just want a cure for their relative. While I agree that there should be some tightening on who is allowed to carry around something that only exists to end one's existence, the problem of mass shooters is ultimately one of communication. A mass shooter usually suffers from mental illness or is just a raging asshole, both problems that can be dealt with sans bloodshed with proper communication. The responsibility for said communication falls on the media, community, family, and individual in that order. 

On the opposite end of the spectrum you have the boorishly tasteless, hopelessly delusional crusaders who feel now would be a good time to remind people that guns are, like, totally radical. Totes rad, brah. When these characters start crawling out of whatever ass backwards red state where QUEERS CAN'T GET NO MARRIED CUZ JESUS they come from I start playing a drinking game. Every time one of them says "second amendment," "freedom," or "Obama taking away our rights," take a shot. So far I've only died of alcohol poisoning twice. If they wish to believe guns do a good job of protecting people, fine, believe all you want. Ignoring the fact that only a very small percentage of gun related homicides are in self defense, guns are not really the issue. People are the issue. Move the people pendulum, not the firearm pendulum.

Both sides, caricatured liberals and caricatured conservatives, are so embarrassingly dense it saddens me. I do not mean that metaphorically either; I'm legit bummed that human beings can become so entrenched in their stupidity, in their madness, that crazy becomes the norm. Speaking solely in hyperbole becomes an acceptable form of conversation. Indignation an acceptable reaction to disagreement. These are the people who bumper stickers were made for. No one likes bumper stickers.

Any loss of life is tragic, but the deepest mourning should be reserved for those closest to the victims. It is not something for a nation to observe, to analyze. We are talking about the loss of human life, not what some smug dipshit said on Twitter to another smug dipshit. Although, can you believe the nerve of Smug Dipshit A? I can't wait to read Yahoo's news report on Smug Dipshit B's counter barb. Enthralling. Why does one's suffering need to be broadcast by news networks? That's not news, that's private. Back the fuck off CNN and Fox News (MSNBC is usually just playing with finger paint and eating glue in a corner), peace is much easier to achieve without 20 cameras in one's face. The dead should not serve as fodder for national news networks. 

I'm not one who believes tragedies happen so we can learn from them, but I believe tragedies will happen again if we do not learn from them. The predictable national discourse does not exactly instill confidence on our ability to learn from mistakes, but I have not given up on humanity just yet. Faith shaken, hope endures.

Advice

A good way to extend the shelf life of fruits and vegetables is to buy whiskey instead.  

Running low on writing paper? Grab two sheets of paper then fold each from the top right corner to bottom left corner. Fold top left corner to bottom right corner. Fold from left to right. Fold top to bottom. Holding the center pull each corner up, then place one sheet over the other. You now either have a paper hat or two awkwardly folded pieces of paper.
 

Never trust a big butt and a smile. Poison! Poison! P-p-p-poison!

To help remember someone's name when first meeting them shake their hand firmly, look them in the eye, and kiss them. You never forget your first kiss.

If you are down in the dumps after breaking up with a significant other ride more public transportation during high traffic times. You'll get more than enough inappropriate physical contact and uncomfortable smelling of fellow patrons to last you a week.

Always bet on black people.
 

Do not take candy from strangers, as they are probably pedophiles. Honestly anyone offering you candy on a day that isn't Halloween is probably a pedophile.

Zoning out of conversations can be a useful tactic to retain some semblance of sanity if you work in an office, have shitty friends, or know someone named Peggy. Oh, really Peggy, the dog food you normally get at Tractor Supply moved to a different aisle? That's crazy! Madness! Please talk about that and only that for fucking 10 minutes even though you clearly see I am trying to politely end the conversation and be about my business.

Considering becoming a magician? Haha! You're hysterical as always!
 

Contemplating suicide but don't want to leave a mess after blowing your brains out with a shotgun? Try shooting yourself inside your tub with the shower curtain pulled back. Leaving cleaning supplies next to your soon-to-be rotting corpse is a thoughtful and appreciated gesture for whoever finds you first.
 

Standing on chairs during office meetings will confer an image of power and assertiveness that your co-workers will respect.

Don't pee on people! It's considered rude most of the time!

There is a difference between maintaining polite eye contact during conversation and creepy creep eye contact for creeps. Ignore this difference. Concentrate on the eyes. Look at them. Make a mental note of every time their eyes nervously glance away from yours. What are they hiding? What do they know? Maintain eye contact. Perhaps they know? Know what you did? No! How could they! That would be impossible. Continue to stare into their eyes. Into their being. Until it burns. Does it burn? DOES IT BURN?

Aim for the stars but remember, most of them are really far away!

Having guests over but not looking forward to the clean up afterwards? Give each guest a trash fanny pack to wear during the party. This trick will virtually eliminate garbage from piling up around your poorly decorated living room and they look oh so stylish too!

Don't use hashtags ever, because you're not an asshole.



Sports

[The Cleveland Noble Savages have just defeated the Jackson City Quadroons 116-110 in game 1 of the Offensive Team Name Basketball League (OTNBL) championship series. "No Shoes" Jackson, DeQwondarius the Magnificent, and Coach McCoacherson have taken their respective seats for questions. The following is the transcript from the Quadroon's post-game press conference]

No Shoes Jackson: Before we start this press conference I'd like to thank God for giving us the strength to go out and compete today. When I first prayed to Him I believe He told me He was on His way to Syria to blow up a school bus full of children, so for Him to take two hours out of His busy schedule for this literally meaningless game of basketball means a lot to us. I'd also like to give thanks to Chaac, the Mayan god of rain and water. We sacrificed a virgin for him before the game, but judging by the outcome I think we should have sacrificed two virgins. Now, questions? Yes, pale white man.

Reporter 1: No Shoes, it appears that you guys lost today because you scored less points than the Noble Savages. Going forward, have you guys considered scoring more points than the Noble Savages?

NSJ: Well that's definitely something that's on the table. Right now we're reviewing all our options, and even reviewing other people's options. But we won't be abandoning our identity; scoring less points than the other team has worked well for us in the past so I don't think we're going to remove that element completely.

Reporter 2: DeQwondarius the Magnificent there have been many troubling reports that you are using douchebag enhancing substances. Reports claim that you are exclusively wearing medium size shirts even though you are 6'8" and that you are using cheap cologne as air freshener. Sources also claim that you are considering getting a tribal tattoo. Is there any cause for concern?

DeQwondarius the Magnificent: Nah, kid, nah. Have I made mistakes in the past? Possibly. Will I make mistakes in the future? Definitely. Am I lacking in tact and sound judgment? Maybe. Did I answer your question? Probably. Do I thnk tribal tattoos are dope as fuck? Absolutely. Do I have any shame about using a term as dated as "dope as fuck?" Nah, kid, nah.

Reporter 2: What does that even mean?

DQM: It means next question.

Reporter 3: Hi, Garfield Marmaduke with Fictitious Sports Weekly.

DQM: No one cares who you are.

Reporter 3: Yes sir, sorry sir. Your Magnificence if I may?

DQM: You may.

Reporter 3: Remember that one play where you, like, grabbed the ball and you were, like, going left then you did this really cool spin move and you were going right and then you jumped up, like, really high and then that dude was coming at you but you were all, like, "rarrgh!!" and, like, dunked? And then everyone was all, like, "ooohhh shit damn!" Remember that?

DQM: It's hard to say for certain. LSD has pretty much destroyed my ability to form new memories and retain information.

Reporter 3: Oh. Ok, well, uh, it was super cool. Thanks for dunking and stuff.

Coach McCoacherson: Any questions for me?

Reporter 1: SIT THE FUCK BACK DOWN.

Reporter 4: This question is for No Shoes Jackson. No Shoes, will you ever wear shoes during a basketball game?

NSJ: No.

Reporter 2: A tangentially related question: is there any truth to the rumors that you will be traded to the Broadway run of Cats once the season is over?

NSJ: While I believe Cats is the most purr-fect show on Broadway I'd rather focus on winning this series before talking about any trades. Meow.

Reporter 1: DeQwondarius there has been-

 

DQM: DeQwondarius the Magnificent.

 

Reporter 1: I'm sorry?

 

DQM: It's DeQwondarius the Magnificent. You need to say the whole thing. Your Magnificence is also acceptable.

 

Reporter 1: DeQwondarius the Magnificent there has been some talk of the aggressive play both teams are known for and how this might be bad for the league. In the first quarter you were given a technical for stabbing Cleveland's Derrick Mulroney to death. Is this the type of aggressive play we can expect for the rest of the series?

 

DQM: Well, I'm a competitor. When I go out there I do anything and everything I can to make sure we win. Sometimes that means to crash the boards, sometimes that means to use a sharpened toothbrush to kill another human being. If it means a W then I will gladly murder every single one of those guys. Hell, I might even murder some of my own teammates.

 

Reporter 3: Is that why Coach McCoacherson is currently bleeding, Your Magnificence?

 

Coach: That's... that's my blood... everywhere...

 

NSJ: Y'know let's not get into who stabbed who, ok? The fact is that every team could use a DeQwondarius when they-

 

DQM: DeQwondarius the Magnificent.

 

NSJ: Apologies, Your Magnificence. Every team could use a DeQwondarius the Magnificent when they step onto the court. When you're playing for a national championship every cartoonishly unhinged lunatic in your locker room brings you one step closer to victory. Now if you'll excuse us we need to get Coach to a hospital.

 

Coach: I'm so... so cold...

Gyms

"Can I get a spot, bro?" asks the man curling in the squat rack.

I'm assuming he recently survived a rather harrowing attack from an escaped gorilla, as that is the only logical explanation for his shirt to be missing so much fabric that I feel like a liar for calling it a shirt. No one needs to see the entirety of your back and both nipples, dude. Malnourished Thai children didn't masterfully craft your clever shirt (Jewbacca? Oh I get it, because it's a Wookie with a yarmulke and nerd things are funny and this country has gone to shit) just so you could turn it into a toga starter kit.

"BRO! GODDAMN SPOT, BRO!" Curling in the squat rack is akin to pooping in a water fountain; aside from missing the original function entirely it is utterly contemptible, vile, disgusting, and lacking in consideration for one's fellow man. Plus he was only curling 70 lbs like a little bitch boy.

"You will not hurt anyone ever again." I say as I grab him by his collar, kick him in the chest a la Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in Game of Death, and stand heroically. A vaguely eastern European woman, head scarfed with breadbasket in hand, comes up to me.

"Thank you save us. You are like hero."

"It was nothing, Olga. I'm just a man looking to lift heavy weights."

"May god protect forever you." She kisses my hand and departs.

Having vanquished Chad (He looked like a Chad. Is that a racist statement? I dunno, I'm kind of on the fence about that.) from the squat rack I begin my workout in earnest. Squats are squatted. Grunts are grunted. Sweats are sweated. After completing a particularly grueling set of squats I rest on the squat rack itself, a valiant knight basking in the glory of slaying dragons. A troop of small men with smaller necks approach. I first believe them to be peasants from Olga's rival village, most likely bringing peace offerings or shamanic blessings to curry my favor. Villagers give me shit, like, all the time. It's super cute.

"Excuse me, how much longer do you have?" asks the largest of the small men.

"Until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, until the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before."

"What?"

"Five minutes."

Ten minutes later I leave for the pull up station and once there, I see her. Short brown hair glides over her sweet face, sweat beads down her soft white skin, Vibram Five Fingers adorn her yuppie feet. A CrossFit Aphrodite, she performs a set of 15 perfect form pull ups with the ease and grace of something that is really good at doing a lot of pull ups. I know only a handful of unassailable facts, irrefutable truths in this world; Obama was born in Nigeria, 9/11 was an inside job, the Holocaust was exaggerated. And I know that this woman must be mine. Summoning decades of torrid sexual conquest and training I approach her. I've learned in these situations it is best to speak sincerely rather than rely on convoluted pick up lines.

"Miss?"

She removes her headphones.

"I want to be inside you."

She puts her headphones back on.

Knowing that I have successfully planted a seed of lust I do not pursue her further. I complete my set of pull ups without incidence. Had their been incidence, I would have wrote about it. You're just going to have to trust me here. I have only one more exercise left in my routine, and make my way to the opposite side of the gym. As I near my goal I see a young man performing dumbbell military press. The weight appears to be a bit much for him, however, as I see his elbows slowly buckle. In a few brief seconds he may very well lose his fight with gravity. I could tell that without immediate intervention he was about to drop the weight on his head.

"You're about to drop the weight on your head," I said as he dropped the weight on his head. Proud of myself for accurately providing commentary for an in-progress tragedy I step over the now bleeding man and head towards the bench area.

If the squat rack is the Chapel of the Ascension, the dumbbell rack is Mount Sinai, and the Smith machine is, of course, a K-Mart in South Dakota then it follows that the bench area is Mecca. This most holy of sites is the culmination of any true bro's weight lifting pilgrimage, bro. After briefly becoming enthralled with my own reflection (I often wonder why every gym insists on having so many mirrors; it lends a funhouse-for-people-with-5%-bodyfat-and-low-self-esteem vibe) I refocus and load 405 onto the bar. Such a weight should not to be taken lightly, as it is fairly heavy. I approach the weight heavily, resting my hands on the bar. Whispering sweet nothings into the ever receptive ears of each individual plate, I promise I will be firm but gentle.

"I will love you forever. Don't ever leave me," I caress the weight, "or you'll be sorry. I swear to god you try to leave and I will fucking end you." Having proclaimed my unconditional love for the weight I slide onto the bench, but manly. All my mental preparation, all my training, has lead me to this singular moment along the space-time continuum. Muscles tensed, breath heavy, blood boiling. As I move the bar from the rack to directly over my chest I let out a guttural cry, a declaration that I am no slave to gravity. A declaration that had the apple hit me in the head I would have chucked that shit right back. I hear nothing of my fellow gym patrons, as they no longer exist. My focus has given way to bloodlust, and I allow it to wash over me, consume me. The weight is now on my chest, 405 pounds of iron resting, waiting, needing to be freed of the surly bonds of earth. I lift, and am free.