Prelude:
A few years ago, local businessman Buddy Davis and I decided to start writing our stories down. Buddy has been in many odd discussions with life by living it to the fullest. This is his story through my mouth. I wrote this like a mad man, so it will probably be very confusing. I guess that’s life. The story is about how Buddy Davis made an old woman feel weird.
Pre-Run
Story by Buddy Davis
Written by Charlie Marks, 2008.
What goes on in the minds of old people? Are they constantly thinking of how they are getting screwed by the younger generation? I wonder what their thought stream is. I can predict it is a balance between apples, social security, and how awesome it is to just block everything out of their brain that matters and be concerned with the most trivial effects in life like arguing that the color red isn’t how it used to be. Old people love apples. We all love what we can’t have. Do colors evolve like old people? Is the red of today the same as the red of the 50s? The only way to find out is to become old—but when you become old nobody believes you anyway. It’s a big cycle. The one thing I know is that old people love when things shake up their lives; it gives them something to talk about. That’s my job.
I came back from a run in the state park next to my high school. I was decompressing like a steam engine, tired but relaxed and refreshed. Is Tomas the Tank Engine his full name? If he is a tank engine, wouldn’t that be assumed? People don’t call me Buddy the Human Being because I am a human being. Tomas is an arrogant prick. Even the little kids who watch the show know that Tomas is a tank engine; I mean kids are stupid but I would like to think they can tell the difference between a human being and a tank engine. Now telling the difference between other tank engines; that’s a challenge—especially being a human.
The run went well, but at that particular moment my engine spotting skills were a little off. It was a different kind of engine that approached our location—this one ran on gas, not steam. My buddy Joe Lavin, a fellow runner and proud owner of a 1983 grey Oldsmobile, serenely drives near me and the group of decompressing runners. My energy was like a plane not ready to land but yet touches the ground briefly. I decided in a most exempt movement to run straight at the moving vehicle as though I was in Die Hard—explosions following as I jump from the 9th story of federal building right on top of the Ronald Reagan Oldsmobile.
I was on the hood of the car staring down at my bewildered friend and noticed that my friend had curly Jackie Kennedy brown hair, telescope thick glasses, crusted eyes, and skin so loose and dry it could be sold on the half off chicken rack in the local Super Fresh if there were such an isle. I study Physics. In my studies I have never came across any device that can transform the looks and emotions of people the way Eurkle could transform into Stephane on the TGIF show Family Matters. I always trusted TV, but I will never be able to be convinced such a device exists. It does not. I could probably come up with such a thing, but I have stories to tell. My friend did not transform into an 80 year old woman. I was standing on a piece of metal that separated me from a 1983 Engine that belonged to a woman born about 60 years before the car.
It was too late. I was already on the car. There was nothing I could have done. It was fact. Not opinion, not an assumption, it was fact. So at the moment of realization I had two choices. I will tell you the first—the one I picked—you can assume the other.
I looked at the woman as though I was looking into the eye of Aaron Burr or Clint Eastwood. I drew first. I walked from the front of the car—feeling with each step the amount of pressure applied to its grey painted metal until I was on the other end of the bumper. I walked right over the old biddies car and found myself on the other side. The woman kept driving—excited to tell her heart playing friends and uninterested husband the news of her day, as I walked nonchalantly to the rest of the team who watch with great excitement and much dismay. I guess the woman was used to her government walking all over her, that a fit track runner seemed like a good change of pace. My friends, the fellow runners said I was crazy. I said it was nothing. I was wrong and they were right. Like true craziness, it was not pre-mediated. It was me.
If Tomas wants to be specific he would be preferred to be called Tomas the Blue Tank Engine. But who needs do to specific? If life were a series of specifications I would be specific in mentioning how random it could be. That old woman loved me. Her love for that moment is as large as the amount of time she complains about it.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Two girls, one (world) cup.
I think sports are the best form of reality TV. The thing about soccer is, unlike other sports, the game clock counts up so you know exactly how much time you wasted. I count the amount of time it takes me to watch a baseball game by adding how many empty beer bottles I have on the table and dividing that by how angry I am at Joe Buck.
I think if I really tried to get good at sports I could fulfill my childhood dreams of having sex with hot women. But I think it’s too late for that… You know, soccer players are the only ones who can convince a girl not to wear a condom because he takes a uniquely absurd amount of Vitamin C… Obviously if you play any sport you can probably pick up the typical bimbo sports groupie; i.e. the cheerleader or dancer or stripper off of Columbus Blvd who tries all her life to be an Eagles cheerleader but settles for having 5 dollar bills shoved into her pantaloons. But, see this is the key; if you are a soccer player you can also pick up the cool looking hipster chick (like Free Library chick from my first blog). Hippsters love soccer because Rivers Cuomo and European’s love soccer. People who don’t even like sports say they like soccer because it’s kind of hip—I think it’s because it is the only sport that embraces scarves…
There are two kinds of people who actively go to the gym; young people (ages 19-26) and old people (ages 50 and up). If you are 50 years old and saying, “50 is not old.” Yes it is. Stop kidding yourself. Stop making us younger people feel bad for being young. You’re 50, you’re old; buy a convertible and get over it. Anyway, there is a big gap in age between the two groups of gym goers. And it all comes down to sexual, yes sexual, intercourse. Obviously young people go to the gym because we are looking for a mate—not that we are looking at the gym for a mate (seek last blog), but we want to look good so people of the opposite sex can say, “Well, he may not have a job or aspirations, but man, look at those bi-ceps.” OR “Well, she listens to Nickelback, her voice sounds like the Nanny, and she has never heard of Michael J. Fox, but damn, look at that tight ass.”… Old people go to the gym for the exact same reason. INTERCOURSE! They go to the gym when their wives and husbands are getting to the annoyance level of contemplation. “I don’t know if I would ever get divorced, but if I did, could I still get laid?” they say to themselves as they hold their breath tight in front of the mirror, sucking in that gut. “I’m 50, that’s not too, too old. How would I do in single life”? They get worried. Next thing you know, “Honey, I’m going to join the gym”, the worn woman says to her potato chipped, beer drinking, glazed over husband. She walks away with a hush and a whisper, “I’ll teach him who forgets to iron the pink button up shirt the morning of the big meeting. I’ll show him how lucky he really is.”
People like people with good bodies. Plain and simple. It’s instinctual—woman want a man who can protect them and men want women who can hold her own. Our bodies, for better or worse, cover us from our souls. There’s nobody at the gym in the middle age (28-40 years old), these are the people who are still excited about marriage. Everything is going great. Everything is still kind of new. Pass those chips. Who cares? I’ve got everything I ever wanted. Why count calories when we are so in love? And really, good for them. That’s a cool time in your life, so live it up. I have several friends and even ex-girlfriends and lovers who are either engaged, married, or in a long term relationship and I couldn’t be happier for them. I get it. But for those of us who are still looking for love, we have to remember to pump the iron.
Which brings me back to soccer players. First, let’s face it, all athletes are in good shape—good enough, to you know, be an athlete. But soccer players have a bit of an edge. This is why I think America has never fully embraced soccer. Think about it. I would argue that when it came to making the rules of American sports, the nerds who did so, first took in account the positive reaction 1800s era soccer players received from women. The 19th century version of Bob Costas probably said, “See, I want there to be sports, but I don’t want our women to be gushing over all these athletes. I got the perfect idea. Lets take change the rules of football and allow the players to hit each other. We’ll give them pads and helmets covering their whole face and entire body. Fuck it, let them even use their hands and instead of a net let them just walk the ball pass a line. Get me a pizza, I’m on to something.” We support American football because the sport actually provides opportunities for fat people. We call them linemen. The same can be said about power hitters in baseball. Phillies legend John Kruk once said, “I’m not athlete, I’m a baseball player.” Now baseball doesn’t promote the obese as much as football, so we made our baseball athletes cover their face with a cap and give them silly pinstriped uniforms. The football method applies to hockey as well, “Give them pads and a helmet. Don’t let them show their athletic bodies to our women.” Now I guess basketball players do not have helmets or pads, but they are tall and I read a stat somewhere that said only 45% of women are attracted to men who are a good foot and half taller than they are. So eat it, Shaq.
This brings us back to soccer players. Not only do they not wear hats or pads or helmets, but sometimes they even take their shirts off at the end of the game—which should be illegal. This is America; land of the free and home of the whopper. We can’t have a bunch of cut, athletic assholes parading around a field half naked in front of OUR women. If we embraced soccer, we’ll just open the doors to communism. Or fascism. Or socialism… Ah whatever, I want my America back!
I think if I really tried to get good at sports I could fulfill my childhood dreams of having sex with hot women. But I think it’s too late for that… You know, soccer players are the only ones who can convince a girl not to wear a condom because he takes a uniquely absurd amount of Vitamin C… Obviously if you play any sport you can probably pick up the typical bimbo sports groupie; i.e. the cheerleader or dancer or stripper off of Columbus Blvd who tries all her life to be an Eagles cheerleader but settles for having 5 dollar bills shoved into her pantaloons. But, see this is the key; if you are a soccer player you can also pick up the cool looking hipster chick (like Free Library chick from my first blog). Hippsters love soccer because Rivers Cuomo and European’s love soccer. People who don’t even like sports say they like soccer because it’s kind of hip—I think it’s because it is the only sport that embraces scarves…
There are two kinds of people who actively go to the gym; young people (ages 19-26) and old people (ages 50 and up). If you are 50 years old and saying, “50 is not old.” Yes it is. Stop kidding yourself. Stop making us younger people feel bad for being young. You’re 50, you’re old; buy a convertible and get over it. Anyway, there is a big gap in age between the two groups of gym goers. And it all comes down to sexual, yes sexual, intercourse. Obviously young people go to the gym because we are looking for a mate—not that we are looking at the gym for a mate (seek last blog), but we want to look good so people of the opposite sex can say, “Well, he may not have a job or aspirations, but man, look at those bi-ceps.” OR “Well, she listens to Nickelback, her voice sounds like the Nanny, and she has never heard of Michael J. Fox, but damn, look at that tight ass.”… Old people go to the gym for the exact same reason. INTERCOURSE! They go to the gym when their wives and husbands are getting to the annoyance level of contemplation. “I don’t know if I would ever get divorced, but if I did, could I still get laid?” they say to themselves as they hold their breath tight in front of the mirror, sucking in that gut. “I’m 50, that’s not too, too old. How would I do in single life”? They get worried. Next thing you know, “Honey, I’m going to join the gym”, the worn woman says to her potato chipped, beer drinking, glazed over husband. She walks away with a hush and a whisper, “I’ll teach him who forgets to iron the pink button up shirt the morning of the big meeting. I’ll show him how lucky he really is.”
People like people with good bodies. Plain and simple. It’s instinctual—woman want a man who can protect them and men want women who can hold her own. Our bodies, for better or worse, cover us from our souls. There’s nobody at the gym in the middle age (28-40 years old), these are the people who are still excited about marriage. Everything is going great. Everything is still kind of new. Pass those chips. Who cares? I’ve got everything I ever wanted. Why count calories when we are so in love? And really, good for them. That’s a cool time in your life, so live it up. I have several friends and even ex-girlfriends and lovers who are either engaged, married, or in a long term relationship and I couldn’t be happier for them. I get it. But for those of us who are still looking for love, we have to remember to pump the iron.
Which brings me back to soccer players. First, let’s face it, all athletes are in good shape—good enough, to you know, be an athlete. But soccer players have a bit of an edge. This is why I think America has never fully embraced soccer. Think about it. I would argue that when it came to making the rules of American sports, the nerds who did so, first took in account the positive reaction 1800s era soccer players received from women. The 19th century version of Bob Costas probably said, “See, I want there to be sports, but I don’t want our women to be gushing over all these athletes. I got the perfect idea. Lets take change the rules of football and allow the players to hit each other. We’ll give them pads and helmets covering their whole face and entire body. Fuck it, let them even use their hands and instead of a net let them just walk the ball pass a line. Get me a pizza, I’m on to something.” We support American football because the sport actually provides opportunities for fat people. We call them linemen. The same can be said about power hitters in baseball. Phillies legend John Kruk once said, “I’m not athlete, I’m a baseball player.” Now baseball doesn’t promote the obese as much as football, so we made our baseball athletes cover their face with a cap and give them silly pinstriped uniforms. The football method applies to hockey as well, “Give them pads and a helmet. Don’t let them show their athletic bodies to our women.” Now I guess basketball players do not have helmets or pads, but they are tall and I read a stat somewhere that said only 45% of women are attracted to men who are a good foot and half taller than they are. So eat it, Shaq.
This brings us back to soccer players. Not only do they not wear hats or pads or helmets, but sometimes they even take their shirts off at the end of the game—which should be illegal. This is America; land of the free and home of the whopper. We can’t have a bunch of cut, athletic assholes parading around a field half naked in front of OUR women. If we embraced soccer, we’ll just open the doors to communism. Or fascism. Or socialism… Ah whatever, I want my America back!
Friday, June 11, 2010
Fear of Music, Gyms, and Buses
“Freeze Time Charlie” that’s what they’ll call me. “Freeze Time” for short. “Hey Freeze Time, Que Pasa Primo!” that’s what they’ll say when I walk down the street. I’ll point at them with my finger thumb gun and give a wink. Then I’ll throw my red hat in the air and everything will freeze frame. That will be my life. Everyday. You know why? Because whenever an attractive woman speaks to me—an unprovoked sentence which fly’s straight through unfiltered time and hits me smack dab on my unquestionably bemused forehead, the words take a few moments to travel from my forehead to ears and then to my brain (a brain by which is off somewhere reading “My Pet Goat”)—finally, after all this time, I think of something to say back. The perfect opening. The thing is. When I go to say it. I’m eating Chinese food with my parents while watching America Idol. Hours later.
In my first blog (two blogs ago) I mentioned how I blew it. You know, with the red head, glasses, free library chick. I had a similar situation at the gym. I was stretching…
Firstly, just to let you know, there are a lot of unwritten rules of the gym. I know mostly none of them. Whenever I go I feel like the new kid on the bus at a new school. Sure there are many buses and many schools, but like gyms, there are all slightly different... On some buses, the cool kids sit in the back, but other cool kids on other buses could possibly sit in the front. On that first day of school, in a new school, the bus ride is really the very first encounter you’ll have with the kids. “Ya can’t sit here” just plays in your head over and over again for every drowning moment you fervently wait at the bus stop… Some quick rules if you are 14, reading this blog, and have your first day at a new school coming up in September: If it appears that the loud pretty people are sitting in the back—these are the popular people—you want to avoid sitting too close to them. On the contrary, you don’t want to sit in the very first seat, the one directly behind the bus driver, next to the drooling fat boy wearing the DARE shirt non-ironically. The trick is that you have to look for the “Jenny” of the bus. You know, the pretty girl who wants to be a bird and fly far, far away but instead becomes a heroin addicted hippy who mothers Haley Jo-Osmond. Find her, she’ll let you sit next to her.*
Anyway, to a trivial degree, the same can be said about going to a new gym—in the sense that there are rules—rules which are common in every gym, but yet slightly different in each and any gym across the country. Does that make sense? Sometimes I can blabber on about things with long winded sentences that do not necessary follow the rules of “Eng-lish.” See, gyms are the school buses of adult life. The only thing different is that you won’t be directly made fun of, just smirked upon. When you are a kid and you do something wrong you’ll be ridiculed for the mistake until you’re like 18. I ate a fly in 1st grade and somebody brought it up a Senior prom. There I was, tux and all, sweaty palmed and hoping to later get some sort of intercourse-like activity, when a person came up to me and said, “Remember when you ate that fly in 1st grade, then you cried because you thought you contracted AIDS because flies come from Africa?” Things follow you around. Stories and whatnot. See when you are a kid you are allowed to make fun of somebody for things that they do, but in adult life you just get a bad look. And bad looks are what you get at the gym. And by you, I mean me.
One of the rules of the gym, like on the bus, is that if there are three machines and one person is using one machine and said machine is not in the middle of the three, you are suppose to leave that middle one open allowing a space between you and the person. So consequently, visualize this, it will go PERSON then OPEN MACHINE then YOU. If you are a guy, you understand that the same can be said about urinals in the men’s room. We are Americans; we have space limits or bubbles (if you will), if you don’t understand this concept you are either a European or a terrorist.
When you are a kid on the bus and smell a horrible, yet immediately identifiable stench of a fart it is like a 45 second Armageddon. Everyone goes nuts…for 45 seconds. Who did it? Was it you? It wasn’t me. It was him. (45 seconds later) It’s pizza night! Ah, to be a kid again. See, when you are an adult, instead of a harsh but quick reaction to a bodily gas, people quietly whisper about it for like three weeks. “Isn’t that the guy who farted in February,” the girl says to her lightly clothed friend. This is especially bad when you are not the one who actually passed the gas. See, I don’t mind if somebody farts, in fact I would commemorate their bravery, but what bothers me is when the person doesn’t come forward—leaving speculation from the newly arrived. If I’m running on the treadmill next to a man who just farted and an attractive woman enters the scene, she doesn’t know the guilty party; therefore she is to assume we both did it. This is not fair. Of course, as adults, we are not supposed to directly point fingers at strangers, so I found a reasonable method to let people know it wasn’t me. I will smell really loudly. I know this doesn’t sound good on paper (on this case, computer screen), but in reality it works. I sniff loudly and then give a sigh to let people around me know that I smelt it and I’m bothered by it. Why would I be bothered by my own farts? It’s un-American. Now if you are on the streets you can fart wherever and whenever you want because you are likely not to see the people you are around, but if you are a new gym and you fart the first week, you will be scolded with looks and thoughts until your contract runs out, which can be weeks to months.
So there I was stretching next to, but with some space in between, a really attractive woman. Now at the gym, it’s nearly impossible to strike up a conversation with a woman. They are either exercising or sweaty and self conscious. (Girls hate talking when they are not looking their absolute best/to me). When they are stretching, now that’s your window (pre-sweat, not currently exercising)...The woman and I were quietly stretching side by side when the club’s personal trainer came walking on by and accidentally kicked her plastic water bottle several feet. He turned to me and apologized respectfully. “Oh, I’m sorry man. Didn’t even see it there,” the broad shouldered man said. In which I then replied, “Oh it’s actually not mine, I think it’s hers.” She spoke up in a persuadably sexy manner, “It’s okay,” her tone slightly dove into an innocent sarcasm, “Oh no! Not my water plastic water bottle. How could you?” The three of us had a nice chuckle, then the trainer walked away leaving me alone with the woman. Now I could have said something jokily about water bottles or I could have said anything. Anything at all. I could have related it somehow to Barry Goldwater and it would have been better than nothing at all. She opened the door and I just stood right outside. Of course I smiled and chuckled to myself, but after that; nothing at all. Nothing at all. Nothing at all. Stupid sexy Flanders**. We continued stretching together, painfully hushed for several moments before she took off into the world of hot girlness.
I froze in the tundra of single life. Call me “Freeze Time Charlie.” My theme music can be track one of 311’s album “Soundsystem.” It’s funny how I can vigorously hit on women I have no interest in, but yet when a girl I like speaks to me, I become all Helen Keller. In the movies, at the end of the movie, the dorky guy wins over the attractive woman. I hate reality.
*If you didn’t understand this, you have ignored one of the best films of the last 25 years. If this is the case. What are you an idiot? You can read a stupid blog but you can’t watch Forest Gump. Shame on you. Shame on you, indeed. Stop what you are doing and watch that movie. It’s probably on TNT as we speak.
**Simpsons reference. I’m not sure what season, but it was the one where Homer goes Skiing. The thing about referring to the Simpsons is that most girls have no idea what you’re talking about. Ever meet a girl who can quote Simpsons lines? They are few and far between. No offense women. I mean, if you were to quote Opera or Hillary Clinton or (insert other famous women here), I wouldn’t know it either.***
***I’m just kidding, women.
In my first blog (two blogs ago) I mentioned how I blew it. You know, with the red head, glasses, free library chick. I had a similar situation at the gym. I was stretching…
Firstly, just to let you know, there are a lot of unwritten rules of the gym. I know mostly none of them. Whenever I go I feel like the new kid on the bus at a new school. Sure there are many buses and many schools, but like gyms, there are all slightly different... On some buses, the cool kids sit in the back, but other cool kids on other buses could possibly sit in the front. On that first day of school, in a new school, the bus ride is really the very first encounter you’ll have with the kids. “Ya can’t sit here” just plays in your head over and over again for every drowning moment you fervently wait at the bus stop… Some quick rules if you are 14, reading this blog, and have your first day at a new school coming up in September: If it appears that the loud pretty people are sitting in the back—these are the popular people—you want to avoid sitting too close to them. On the contrary, you don’t want to sit in the very first seat, the one directly behind the bus driver, next to the drooling fat boy wearing the DARE shirt non-ironically. The trick is that you have to look for the “Jenny” of the bus. You know, the pretty girl who wants to be a bird and fly far, far away but instead becomes a heroin addicted hippy who mothers Haley Jo-Osmond. Find her, she’ll let you sit next to her.*
Anyway, to a trivial degree, the same can be said about going to a new gym—in the sense that there are rules—rules which are common in every gym, but yet slightly different in each and any gym across the country. Does that make sense? Sometimes I can blabber on about things with long winded sentences that do not necessary follow the rules of “Eng-lish.” See, gyms are the school buses of adult life. The only thing different is that you won’t be directly made fun of, just smirked upon. When you are a kid and you do something wrong you’ll be ridiculed for the mistake until you’re like 18. I ate a fly in 1st grade and somebody brought it up a Senior prom. There I was, tux and all, sweaty palmed and hoping to later get some sort of intercourse-like activity, when a person came up to me and said, “Remember when you ate that fly in 1st grade, then you cried because you thought you contracted AIDS because flies come from Africa?” Things follow you around. Stories and whatnot. See when you are a kid you are allowed to make fun of somebody for things that they do, but in adult life you just get a bad look. And bad looks are what you get at the gym. And by you, I mean me.
One of the rules of the gym, like on the bus, is that if there are three machines and one person is using one machine and said machine is not in the middle of the three, you are suppose to leave that middle one open allowing a space between you and the person. So consequently, visualize this, it will go PERSON then OPEN MACHINE then YOU. If you are a guy, you understand that the same can be said about urinals in the men’s room. We are Americans; we have space limits or bubbles (if you will), if you don’t understand this concept you are either a European or a terrorist.
When you are a kid on the bus and smell a horrible, yet immediately identifiable stench of a fart it is like a 45 second Armageddon. Everyone goes nuts…for 45 seconds. Who did it? Was it you? It wasn’t me. It was him. (45 seconds later) It’s pizza night! Ah, to be a kid again. See, when you are an adult, instead of a harsh but quick reaction to a bodily gas, people quietly whisper about it for like three weeks. “Isn’t that the guy who farted in February,” the girl says to her lightly clothed friend. This is especially bad when you are not the one who actually passed the gas. See, I don’t mind if somebody farts, in fact I would commemorate their bravery, but what bothers me is when the person doesn’t come forward—leaving speculation from the newly arrived. If I’m running on the treadmill next to a man who just farted and an attractive woman enters the scene, she doesn’t know the guilty party; therefore she is to assume we both did it. This is not fair. Of course, as adults, we are not supposed to directly point fingers at strangers, so I found a reasonable method to let people know it wasn’t me. I will smell really loudly. I know this doesn’t sound good on paper (on this case, computer screen), but in reality it works. I sniff loudly and then give a sigh to let people around me know that I smelt it and I’m bothered by it. Why would I be bothered by my own farts? It’s un-American. Now if you are on the streets you can fart wherever and whenever you want because you are likely not to see the people you are around, but if you are a new gym and you fart the first week, you will be scolded with looks and thoughts until your contract runs out, which can be weeks to months.
So there I was stretching next to, but with some space in between, a really attractive woman. Now at the gym, it’s nearly impossible to strike up a conversation with a woman. They are either exercising or sweaty and self conscious. (Girls hate talking when they are not looking their absolute best/to me). When they are stretching, now that’s your window (pre-sweat, not currently exercising)...The woman and I were quietly stretching side by side when the club’s personal trainer came walking on by and accidentally kicked her plastic water bottle several feet. He turned to me and apologized respectfully. “Oh, I’m sorry man. Didn’t even see it there,” the broad shouldered man said. In which I then replied, “Oh it’s actually not mine, I think it’s hers.” She spoke up in a persuadably sexy manner, “It’s okay,” her tone slightly dove into an innocent sarcasm, “Oh no! Not my water plastic water bottle. How could you?” The three of us had a nice chuckle, then the trainer walked away leaving me alone with the woman. Now I could have said something jokily about water bottles or I could have said anything. Anything at all. I could have related it somehow to Barry Goldwater and it would have been better than nothing at all. She opened the door and I just stood right outside. Of course I smiled and chuckled to myself, but after that; nothing at all. Nothing at all. Nothing at all. Stupid sexy Flanders**. We continued stretching together, painfully hushed for several moments before she took off into the world of hot girlness.
I froze in the tundra of single life. Call me “Freeze Time Charlie.” My theme music can be track one of 311’s album “Soundsystem.” It’s funny how I can vigorously hit on women I have no interest in, but yet when a girl I like speaks to me, I become all Helen Keller. In the movies, at the end of the movie, the dorky guy wins over the attractive woman. I hate reality.
*If you didn’t understand this, you have ignored one of the best films of the last 25 years. If this is the case. What are you an idiot? You can read a stupid blog but you can’t watch Forest Gump. Shame on you. Shame on you, indeed. Stop what you are doing and watch that movie. It’s probably on TNT as we speak.
**Simpsons reference. I’m not sure what season, but it was the one where Homer goes Skiing. The thing about referring to the Simpsons is that most girls have no idea what you’re talking about. Ever meet a girl who can quote Simpsons lines? They are few and far between. No offense women. I mean, if you were to quote Opera or Hillary Clinton or (insert other famous women here), I wouldn’t know it either.***
***I’m just kidding, women.
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