Machine: 1, Me: Zip

Some weeks ago, I was at the local fitness establishment (my first mistake) and wanted to try something a little different than my usual routine (my second mistake). I was with my mother, my hardcore workout buddy, whom around the house is affectionately referred to as Arnold (as in Terminator). She suggested jogging on a treadmill, as opposed to the putzing around on the elliptical. Ok, sounds innocent enough.

Never again.

For those of you who don't know me, I don't exactly have the build of a long distance runner. Picture a barrell on a couple 2x4's with a slightly fatter ass. That's me. So why I thought I could actually spend any significant amount of time on a machine/torture device that is made for this purpose is completely beyond my scope of understanding. Again, for those of you that don't know me, I should also mention that I trip on air. My feet, I am convinced, are not in any way wired into my nervous system. Any movement is nothing more than a mere spasm and a complete fluke.

Combine the above information with a continuous-running rubber sheet and see where that gets a person.

I did fine for the first half-mile. I was clipping along at a good pace and starting to believe maybe I could actually do this. Looking back, this is probably the cause of all events that were to transpire in the upcoming minutes. It's difficult to admit, but I got cocky. Never, ever get cocky on a treadmill because this is what will happen:

You will trip. And you will fall. And you will hang on to the handrails with your feet dragging /bouncing behind you in a piss-poor resemblence of Superman for approximately 10 seconds. At this point, while splayed out quasi-horizontally, I took the opportunity to gaze at my mother on the treadmill beside me. Her face was almost enough to make up for the humiliation. Almost. She mouthed "Are you OK?" (since my headphones had miraculously remained in my ears at this point). I nodded a solemn yes, all the while trying in any way, shape or form to pull myself back into a running position. I had already lost every ounce of my pride, I wasn't about to fall off the back of the damn thing, too.

Amid my mom's not-so-subtle giggles (once she discovered I was OK) I managed to summon enough upper-body strength to get the situation undercontrol. I was back in an upright position and managed to slow the possessed machine to a stop. I calmly stripped the headphones off, gathered my iPod and stepped off the treadmill. I looked down to avoid the eyes of all other fitness buffs. This is when I became conscious of the fact that shoes, no matter how durable the advertisers claim they are, get holes when subjected to an intense friction.

In reflection, I think I did the witnesses of this mishap a favor. They can now go about their workouts knowing that they will never look as absolutely stupid/hilarious/pathetic as the girl who got beat by a treadmill.

I was drunk and I rollerbladed into a gay bar...

I was having a conversation with my aunt while boating out on the lake yesterday and this (see title) is how she started one of her stories. Only these 10 words made it out of her mouth before I burst into a gut-busting laughing fit. Fastforward 4 minutes and 28 seconds to the point when I can catch my breath and wipe the river of tears off of my face. At this point, I naturally couldn't let her actually finish her story until I analyzed her intro word for word. Here goes.

"I was drunk..."

Ok, this is not news. She sucks down wine like it is merely Welch's. She calls cosmopolitans "koolaid". If she had a Myspace page, you would find Jose, Jack and Jager in her top 8 friends. It really isn't even a shock when she tells you that it is shortly before noon. (Logically, if you want to drink all day, you need to start before noon.)

"and I rollerbladed..."

This may be the funniest part of the story, believe it or not. She is not known for her coordination, athletically speaking. She can totter all over a city on stilettos after a pitcher of "koolaid" like a pro. But put her on wheels and she (and the unlucky soul in her way) may have a problem. Now bear in mind that at this point, she is drunk AND rolling down a sidewalk. How this woman didn't get tagged for a DWI is beyond me.

"into a gay bar..."

Similar to the drunkeness, this is expected. She has many gay friends, thus has frequented these establishments. In fact, she lovingly refers to herself as a "fag hag".

Moving on in the story. Now that we managed to get past the first 10 words. With an introduction like this, I almost expected anything else that came out of her mouth to be somewhat anti-climactic. I should have known better.

As we have established, she was drunk and rollerbladed into a gay bar. As it turned out, she didn't roll herself in there by her own power. See, she had never been into this particular gay bar and upon saying so, her friend thought he would help her out by shoving her through the door.

Stumbling through the door of a bar (any door, really) on rollerblades typically ends in one way. With the person flat on their stomach. This case wasn't any different. What WAS different was what she happened to see upon looking up from the floor. Any guesses? I can almost guarantee that you are not correct, but it might be fun to try.

Are you done coming up with the alternative ending yet? I don't want to give anything away if you aren't prepared.

OK, you've had enough time. Back to the story.

By now she is on her hands and knees, probably looking quite ridiculous with a pair of rollerblades on her feet. She peers up just in time to see a man sitting in a bathtub with another man standing above him. Once again, it's a gay bar. Somewhat expected. But this man doing the standing also happens to be peeing on the man in the bathtub. Apparently my aunt has discovered a couple who has a fetish.

Quite the appropriate ending, if you ask me. Actually, I think I would be disappointed if she happened to rollerblade into a gay bar while intoxicated and NOT see one man urinating on another man. It would be a waste of the alcohol that was the root of the whole event.

Because There Simply Is Nothing Better To Do In Maryland

I read this article earlier in the day and it was just one of those things that got stuck in my head. Then I was forced to cock said head to one side and think about it...then cock same head to the other side (all while staring blankly) and think about it some more. After all that thinking, the best answer I could possibly come up with was "Huh?!"

Then again, maybe we shouldn't be too hard on poor David. This could be the boost in the economy that Americans have been seeking for months. I mean, this lady had valuable stuff just collecting dust in her house. If someone is willing to pay for it, who is David to stop them? Doesn't it make sense to put these items to good use...such as, oh, I don't know, recycling it in a yard sale 3 houses down from where the hot goods came from? And you can't possibly fault the guy for attempting to make a profit. This is a prime example of the capitalism that is so important to this country.

So on second thought, let's give this guy a medal. He clearly has the best of intentions. His efforts to be a green citizen by recycling and giving the economy a kick in the ass should be commended.

Here is the source of my ramblings. Feel free to make your own opinions.