As we rapidly approach the 12th December – I say rapidly, it is actually going at the regular speed of time except that I really wanted to use the word rapidly – we are nearing that gullible time where my Facebook wall becomes a torrent of “This wont happen again for another 3492887556758 years” and will beg me to repost because it is called MoneyBags or some such.  And in 4 days money will appear.

This is true.  No lie.  Nope, none at all. On the 11th of November 2011, someone put up something along the lines of this months has 5 saturdays, 5 wednesdays, a dog called Peter and when holy people wipe their arse they will see jesus in the toilet paper…regardless of religion.  Repost within 8 seconds and money will arrive in 4 days”.  I mean, that HAD to be true.  So I did it.  I posted it.  I took on all of those who would ridicule me and I put that little status up within 8 seconds.

And you know what happened?

4 days later….money magically appeared in my bank account!!!!  No, really.  I mean it. Not just a few pounds, it was a substantial amount.  AND…get THIS…someone sent me a letter telling me they had done it!  I don’t know who they are, but they are called “Payslip”….and then I realised something equally important.  The Gods of Feng Shui KNEW I would put that status on Facebook because when I checked, they had been putting the same amount of money in my account on the 15th of every month for a couple of years…and have continued to do so ever since.

Take THAT all you non-believers!

Lets look at the 4 facts of the hoax:

1 – OK, so maybe the only part of that last few hundred words is that I get paid on the 15th of the month.  And it isn’t because I wrote some crappy Facebook status.  It is because I drag my carcass out of bed every day and drive 30 miles away to sit at a desk for several hours and then go home.  Sure, I do some stuff inbetween…lunch etc…but the end result is that they pay me to do it. 

2 – Nobody has a dog called Peter.  Have they?  Would they?  Peter the dog? I understand Pat the dog.  But Peter?  I guess they could, but I would rather call my dog StickleBrick before I call it Peter.  I guess it isn’t outside the realms of possibility….people believe in the god of traffic lights after all.  “Don’t change…don’t change…don’t change…please don’t change…a few more seconds *passes the traffic lights*…YES!  Thank you!”.  It doesn’t work like that.  If traffic lights had some kind of soul, they would honestly just mess with us.  And if there is a god of traffic lights, why would he want to help you?  He is sat on a cloud watching morning TV and eating grapes. 

3 – 5 Saturdays in a month.  Sure…happens quite a lot.  Actually, it happens this month.  I should probably put that on Facebook.  “If the world does NOT end on the 21st of December, you will receive presents in 4 days time….but only if you Like this post, repost it on your wall and talk like a monkey for the next 8 hours”.  Then on the 25th, everyone will wake up to presents….and will think I am some kind of omnipotent being rather than the impotent idiot that I usually am.

4 – Jesus will not appear on your toilet paper when you wipe your arse.  Instead, a load of crap that other people don’t want to see or hear about will appear.  Hang on…

So…this is….technically all true?  You should probably forward this post on to all your friends in the next 3 minutes.  If you do, another post may appear before the end of the year.    If you don’t, a thousand kittens will die every minute you stall from sending it.  And I don’t mean the ugly ones.  I mean those really fluffy cute ones that are so adorable and love you more than ice cream.  And the ice cream has sprinkles.  And the kittens are all called Sprinkles.  And when I run out of kittens, I will move on to killing puppies.  Did I say I?  I meant Facebook.  Yes, they watch your wall…when you don’t repost stuff like you have been asked to, they kill things.  True story (not substantiated).

You have been warned.

It has, in the last week or so, turned what can be described as “a little chilly”.  That first day of scraping ice instead of bird sh*t off of your car like you get to do in summer arrives. 

And then from that happy utopia that is England comes a large pile of doggie doodoo and everyone turns in to the valley of the dead.

Those happy go lucky people who spent all summer with the smouldering attitude of positivity with their chirpy feelgood comments of “OMG! It is too hot!  Go away sun!” are now happy.  The sun has gone.  The heat has gone.  The cold has arrived.  And now they are moaning that it is too cold.  Facebook  adorns itself with a wall full of “…hates the cold”  “…go away winter” “look what I made for dinner!”  “…Trains are f**&ed” “…my god it is cold!” “…just made a sandwich”.   These people are as predictable as finding the toilet is out of toilet roll the morning after a particularly spicy curry. Their coffee is too hot.  Now it is too cold.  Their house is too hot.  Now it is too cold.   The last time I saw something so negative I was licking a battery. And no, it wasn’t a battery of chickens.  What do you take me for?

The transport system falls apart.  The wrong kind of snow, ice, leaves on the line.  The wrong kind of idiot running the network.   We have run out of mangled smurfs to power the trains (you don’t REALLY think they run on electricity do you?  Poor naive reader…do your homework.  Things are not as they seem.)

Then you have the people who have gone from “Look.  Look at me still in my shirt while you wear your light jacket!  I am amazing.  Love me…adore me…admire me.  FEAR ME!” who are now wearing a coat so large that you would offer them a seat on the train because you think they are pregnant.  You don’t offer that seat because they have a beard and their name is Nigel or something.  The thing is, it only dropped to 10 degrees.  And it isn’t raining.

Then we have that light rain shower.  A few specks of rain fall.  UMBRELLAS UP! Ladies…I understand.  You have lovely hair that when I pass closely I take a big deep inhale of.  You smell great.  But blokes…for the love of some imaginary deity…MAN UP.  Most of us don’t have hair…why have you got an umbrella up? Here is the thing…women laugh at you.  “Compensating for something with that enormous golf umbrella is he?” is sniggered as you walk past all confident.

And then you have the “I am not used to using an umbrella” types.  Those who will do their best to decapitate you with their Hello Kitty umbrella.  Or believe that there is no reason they need to move it out of the way and instead the person walking past them should commando roll past to save inconveniencing you from lifting it a little higher.

So then.  We have confirmed that it is in fact winter.  So what do you do?  You put a coat on your horse..

Why?  Why do people do that?  Driving to work this morning, I drove past a field.  In it were horses.  I know this because I looked in the field.  Yes I know I should watch the road, but you just never know when you will see a stoat.  I do love a good stoat.  Their cheeky optimistic smiles and the fact they always wave.  A few weeks back I did 4 loops just to keep waving at them.  Amazing.

But.  The horse.  It is wearing a coat.  But not a nice tight all over coat, just a coat that covers their back.  I don’t want to use the word “pointless” here…but…well…isn’t that…erm…pointless?  It was minus 4.  It was windy.  Just what is that “coat” going to do?  If you are so concerned that the horse hasn’t got his coat on because he may get chilly, why not,  instead of leaving it in a field in the dead of night where they go hard…and NOBODY likes it when glue goes hard…you could invite them in.  Give them a warm bed.  Let them take a shower.  Unless you are particularly fond of your vegetable rack, you are safe that in the middle of the night they wont get up and clean the fridge out and may only help themselves to a carrot or 2.   Although, and call me crazy, I have a feeling that furry outer they have.  The hair type stuff that seems to completely cover them….well…I think that may actually keep them warm.  I mean, I get that putting the coat on them means that at 2am when one of the horses cant sleep, he can wake up the others and say “Do I look stupid in this coat?  Is it my colour?  Does my tail look bushy enough?  Are the sheep laughing at us?”.

And why are the cows not wearing a new coat?  I guess there is the issue of do you want frozen milk or curdled milk so they have to leave it off. 

There are many things I will never understand in this world.  Why I am ill when I have already been ill this year already is one thing.  Women is another.

Sure, I could tell you all about my glands being all swollen in my throat (the other gland is asleep unwilling to play) and how much pain I am in, but like an absolute hero of mankind, I am not calling in sick to work, will struggle through without mentioning it to anyone…hell, I am only mentioning it here because you lot wouldn’t give me sympathy if I offered to pay for it.  But I am not one to talk too much about my issues.  What a guy.  But if you want to give me sympathy, you can get me on sy@wheelturninghamsterdead.com and offer me sympathy and love.  I should mention that my name isn’t actually Sy.  It is Hankerchunklewoot.  But people laugh at me when I tell them so I shortened it to something sexier.  Like Sy.  I mean, I am not admitting I am amazingly attractive to look at, but when the girls look at me, they do often sigh.  My wife certainly does.  It is normally followed by “Have you STILL not done xxxxx” You can replace the xxxxx with washing, cleaning, bathing, personality transplant etc.  Maybe her sigh isn’t in the way that I should take it.

But anyway, before I barely mentioned myself and my incredible ill moment I am going through, I said I didn’t understand women.

Since I was old enough to understand that you never EVER say “Yes, your butt looks HUGE in that dress!” I have been ever increasingly concerned about the quantity of arse transplants going on.  I mean, in a way I fully understand the need for an arse transplant.  My neighbour Steve is a typical example of an arse that the rest of the neighbourhood would like to transplant to a different location.  Totally understandable.  But the whole “I need to make my arse look bigger” is one that I and the rest of mankind just don’t understand. 

I understand it even less when they have an arse transplant and replace it with a pig as this woman seems to have done:

She looks like she went in to one of those Star Trek transporters with Porky Pig, there was a glitch in the anti matter tachyon confibulator thing and they joined at the arse.  That or this woman decided that trying to find a seat on the train was that difficult that she would get her own implanted in to her behind.

 Honestly.  It IS porky pig isn’t it:

I understand that the picture maybe doesn’t LOOK like Porky Pig, but geez…did I say I was a photoshop expert?  No.  No I didn’t.   And it is obviously a pig because you can see it’s teeth.

But really.  Why after generations of “Does my bum look big in this” are we men now thrown the curve ball of some wanting to hear “Yes.  Yes it does.  It looks ENORMOUS!”  In some circles that will result in her turning around, hugging you and telling you she loves you.  And in other circles she will castrate you and flush your nuts down the toilet and promise to hunt you down and hurt you if you ever say it again.

It is just not fair.

How would you like it if us men changed something about ourselves?  Huh?  Well?  Yeah…well maybe we will.  Maybe we will stop all this fast food and beer drinking.  We will get in shape.  Get a washboard stomach, get a personality transplant, start washing, buy you flowers and chocolates and bring you surprise gifts just because we love you…you know…end up as a completely different person to the one you chose to be with. 

Yeah.  Lets see how YOU like being messed about with!  Don’t go having a moan when this happens.  You threw us the curve ball of “I want my arse to look big in this” so this is our revenge!

Hang on….

Come on.  Tell me you don’t want to get involved.  Come on…honestly.  You do don’t you:

Suuure, it is a joke that those crazies over in Ireland put up and may turn a little messy…but they make some great alcohol so who the hell am I to complain?

But I honestly think if promoted correctly this could take off.  Decide on the interpretation of the word “Bum” and you have a whole raft of homeless people, leeches, politicians, bankers, people who write crap like this…the world is your oyster.

Of course, sometimes it is OK just to look and stay away from the whole touching thing.  This has been confirmed by my wife who once told me that it is OK to look, as long as you think theirs is not as nice as mine.  And boy have I spent a lot of time confirming that.  Although she confirmed that the touch test on other women would result in the removal of testicles operation that she will perform sans anesthesia.

I propose we have a few more days.  Once a year ones that bring good feeling to animals and mankind alike.  Such as:

“Take a seal out on a date day” – Take them clubbing.  They will LOVE it. 

“Cuddle a hungry crocodile day” – One for the people in society we really don’t like?  Maybe we could make a TV show out of it?  “I am a child killer/abuser…get me out of here” as they get placed in to a cage full of hungry crocodiles and the only weapon they have to defend themselves is a feather duster.  And they are only wearing their socks.  Or we could market it with an additional board game?  Hungry Hungry Crocodiles.

“Kill a tree day” – Lets call it Christmas Day just in case people don’t like the word “kill” and we can all send a vast array of pointless cards to people we don’t speak to.  Naturally “Christmas Day” stands for Cards Have Really Important Stuff  To Make A Smile Day and is NOT the same as some religious holiday like it has been hijacked for in years gone by.  I mean really…Christ….nailed to a cross and in a lot of pain.  Santa…big fat jolly dude.  How the heck are these two meant to be the same day?   And what is it with Christmas and ORANGES?  My recollection of Christmas as a kid at school was something to do with oranges.  I cant even remember what.  But every time I see an orange I believe that people should buy me presents.  And give me a candle.  Christmas ruined fruit for me.  The one thing I hate about oranges is the whole white bit that after peeling gets stuck in your teeth and you cant chew and it is really hard to swallow…much like reli…ohhhhh….yeah OK, I understand.

“Kill the wabbit day” – Lets do it around Easter every year.  The winner gets whatever is in his basket.  Of course, it is quite  presumptuous to assume that the Easter Bunny is a bloke.  Lets look at the facts:  Gets the delivery done on time every year.  The eggs are always really neatly wrapped.  Has an INCREDIBLY fluffy tail.  OK, it may just be me but I REALLY hope it is a girl now.  Fancying a boy rabbit would be too much for me to handle.

“You fancy a wabbit day” – Just in case I was right about the Easter Bunny being female.  We all go out and fondle fluffy rabbit tails.  At the end you go home to your wife and say “Nope…didn’t enjoy it at all.  Whats that?  This application form for next year?  Dunno, must have slipped in to my hand.”

Or we could hijack the likes of Movember and get on that bandwagon.  What about “Constember”.  A month of not going to the toilet due to constipation.  It could be every October.   The straining through November to get the backlog out may help with Moustache production.  You go in to the bathroom a whimpering boy full of a month of crap.  You come out a slimmer healthier man…with stunning lip fuzz to boot.

Talking of Movember, I like how the older female members of society get involved with this.  The memories of kissing my Nan when I was a child and how it used to leave me with a rash…cant they release a version of Veet for old ladies?  “Nans…your grandchildren find it offensive…scrap that tash!” – That would sell millions.  Wouldn’t it?

Anyway.  It is Thursday.  Who’d have thunk it.  Crazy times indeed.

Someone in Korea woke up one morning and thought “I am going to make a theme park about toilets.” so he did.

I don’t know for sure, but I am fairly confident that he watched Field of Dreams with the ever dreary Costner and had his own “build it and they will come” moment except that his was probably more “”Clench and they will come”.   Or “Eat a shedload of chillies and you have no choice…it WILL come”. 

Or maybe the tagline for the park is “Lackadaisical Lethargy Leads to Loose Lumps”.  It probably isnt.  But you know, the average person who thinks that going to a park just so they can find out about s*it may learn something more just from googling the words in the tagline.

But it doesn’t stop there because:

Visitors to the Restroom Cultural Park in the southern city of Suwon can learn fun facts about human poo and look around a toilet-themed art gallery.

VS

Before I start…is that Smeagol behind Obama with his weird little hands getting hold of his precious?  Something isn’t right….

Anyway.  Why a picture of a racoon and Obama.  Let me begin.

Q: What do the US Presidential Elections and Crazy Raccoon Sex have in common?

I should mention here that I don’t know the answer.  I really don’t.  But for some strange reason, on the day the US were deciding something or other to do with who gets to live in the gingerbread house and have 4 years to eat it before someone else gets a chance, a LOT of the sons and daughters of America were getting to this site via Google after typing in the following search queries:

funny racoon

funny racoon pictures

angry racoon

pictures sexy racoon

A picture of a racoon

racoon sex

drunk racoon

racoons having sex

racoon angry

you will get rogered   <– I appreciate this one does not mention raccoons…I just wonder why someone searched for that.  It also seems to affirm that the interesting and informative hard hitting journalism I write on this site may at times bring in the wrong kind of reader.

Why are people looking for pictures of sexy racoons?  What constitutes a racoon being sexy?  I tested this by going to Google Images and searching for “Racoon” and turned the safesearch off.  You know what I got?  Well it wasn’t an erection.  Nor did my heart rate increase.  I am thinking that I am the wrong kind of pervert and my deviance’s are a little more off than requiring a simple picture of a racoon to move the blood flow a little further south.

What confuses me more about the whole racoon search keywords is that the searches came from multiple US States.  Using multiple Internet providers.  What the hell were you all searching for pictures of randy racoons?  No seriously.  Why?

So I did some investigation (I really didn’t).  I checked all the main weird news story sites (Nope, I didn’t do that either).  I called some of my American friends (An obvious lie – I have no friends) to find out any gossip.  Nothing.  Nada.

Did most of the young men of the US end up home alone, got a little bored…decided to mask their Internet surfing with something a little more sensible than a good search of “I want to watch porn but mummy wont let me”?

Or maybe it is just the world we live in now.  It has changed.  For reasons of fairness, I am going to write the last couple of Internet searches I did.  Just to prove that I don’t think that the whole searching for wanting to shag a racoon is normal.  Mine are:

Do people have sex with racoons?

Does the US president like to play hide the salami with a medium-sized mammal native to North America?

Why do I have small mushrooms growing out of the end of my wee wee

Hmmm…I guess that they were there because I was searching for news stories related to this post and my confusion.  Well, that is my story and I am sticking to it.

The other most popular hit yesterday was to the post I wrote when I stayed up watching Obama get elected four years ago.  I would put the link here but I cant be bothered.  We both know you wont read it.  But this time was different.  This time I couldn’t be bothered to stay up and watch.

I wont tell you who my “God I hope it is…” vote went to.  Mostly because it is a secret and also it would be unfair on the readers to the site who supported that idiot that lost (I wasn’t a fan…and wont miss him).  And because I don’t want to upset Donald Trump…if you haven’t read his twitter feed you are missing out on more random pointless BS than is on this site.

Anyway.  Bored now.  And The Terminator is on.  And what the hell TV show was the woman in who plays Sarah Connor in years ago?  I would google it, but I don’t need that kinda stuff in my Internet history…what do you think I am?  Some kind of freak?

It is with deep regret that I need to inform you that today is a very very sad day.  Not like Saturday which was a very fun day, nor like Sunday which was an OK day until the evening.  But today is Monday.  Not even that, at the moment it is 7am Monday morning.  Which means I still have to last an entire day before it is Tuesday.  Which just so happens to be the single worst day of the week.

I hate Monday morning.  I think I hate it most because it is the start of a 2 day routine of wishing my life away.  And to be honest…I am not getting any younger.

OK, so I realise that is a really stupid saying.  “I am not getting any younger”.  Of course we aren’t.  Benjamin bleedin’ Button was a film.  I know this because of the “quotes” attributed to him such as: “Your life is defined by its opportunities… even the ones you miss. ” and “Goodnight Daisy”.  I can 100% confirm that I have never  said goodnight to a plant….weed…spec of dust…Algerian woman with only one nostril named Amira.  That is why you should not accept Benjamin Button as a suitable rolemodel. 

We also cannot be born old and get younger.  Which is good.  Because I was an immensely handsome baby and the idea that I then get even better looking as life goes on…well….yeah OK, I am lying.  I currently have that shaven head unshaven face yob look going on.  I am as attractive as dipping your love spuds in honey and shoving them in to a bees nest. 

But this post is not about where I get my kicks.  Nor about the truckload of bees and pots of honey I ordered which turned up at the house yesterday and I had to explain to my wife just why they were there as I stood there, trousers around my ankles with a look of glee on my face.  In my defence, she told me she was going out.  Sure, I should’ve checked prior to dropping my strides, but when I saw that lorry come around the corne….you know….it is really not an integral part of this post so I shall not carry on.

So anyway.  Yes.  Monday.  Well, actually, the rest of the week too.  They can be defined as:

Sunday – Wake up with the sudden realisation that the weekend is over.  Even though there is a whole day to go.  Actually, some 50% of the weekend to go.  But that doesn’t matter.  You hate it.  You make snide comments about it.  In my opinion, Sunday is called God’s day because it kicks you in the balls when you are down and uses the “free will” comment when you say “Why cant you just bugger off and leave me in peace.  I was happy with Saturday.”  And you know, for me anyway, Sunday night is a work night.  Not work work but pre-work.  Ironing clothes.  Only drinking several beers so the hangover is not as bad in the morning.

Monday – Wake up.  Bitch to self about it being Monday.  Drag sorry arse to work.  Bitch to colleagues about it being Monday.  Mention that it is Tuesday tomorrow to bring everyone down.

Tuesday – The single worse day of the week.  Ever.  In the history of days.  And time.  Infact I think if I was sentenced to death and they said “Your execution day is November 5th” I would probably look at the calendar and go “Can I pencil in Saturday 3rd” just so I could go on a high.  And then when they said “What would you like as a last meal” I would probably order a jar of honey, some bees and some alone time.

Wednesday and Thursday – These days do not exist.  They actually don’t.  They are pencilled in to the calendar to pad it out a little.  It is true.  What did you do last Thursday?  Go on…don’t think about it, just tell me.  You can’t can you.  Unless it was a funeral or something…in which case, I am sorry for your loss…and instead, what did you do the Thursday before?  Unless…well, maybe that was the day they died.  Wow, bad couple of weeks for you.  Bet you wish it was Sunday now don’t you.

Friday – OMG!  IT IS FRIDAY!  IT IS THE WEEKEND!  I AM GOING TO GET SOOOOO DRUNK AND DO STUFF.  You shove some ridiculous quantity of junk food down your gullet and feel like you are going to vomit sugar cubes.  And not just any sugar cubes.  White sugar cubes.

Saturday – Lay in bed until some ridiculous time and lose most of the day.  When you do finally get up, you sit in front of the TV scratching yourself.

And the next thing you know,it is Sunday night and you are stood by the iron thinking “I wish I was rich and didn’t have to work”.  Which would also end up badly for me.  I would spend my entire day eating junk.  Moaning I was bored.  And would probably go back to work.

In unrelated news….it is still Monday and on the news this morning on the way to work they mentioned that “British men are better hung than our French counterparts”.  Makes sense I guess, it was just last week that someone said to me “You really are just a giant cock aren’t you”. 

According to a news story which, if you prefer to read it rather than the cack I come up with, is right HERE, a man in New Zealand walked in to A&E, had an x-ray and got it confirmed that he had an eel stuck in his rectum.

Now, call me crazy, but if I had something like that lodged in my rectum I would NOT be walking.  I would be doing that awkward waddle walk, kind of like that “I am literally going to poo myself AAAAANY second” one that people do when they think “naaaah, I don’t need to go…I can carry on painting this wall.  Oh..missed a bit, let me just stretch over th…oh…oh no….*waddle* *waddle*” and off they go clutching their behind hoping not to defecate themselves while walking like a wounded penguin who knows the rest of the pack are watching him. 

That wasn’t me by the way.  I don’t paint.   Well, I do…OK, I HAVE painted.  But never crapped myself while doing it.  I also don’t know of anyone who has.  So I guess that whole painting and pooping thing was kind of pointless.  How about…ummm…”I cant be bothered to get out of bed….I will go in the morning.” and then have a fart of doom….*waddle* off they go.

You know what, that wasn’t me either.  Although of the two, it is the more likely.  I also just realised I have been talking about people needing to take a crap instead of the story of Eel Man.

Now, from reading the news story which you didn’t click on in the first paragraph, you will know that:

‘The eel was about the size of a decent sprig of asparagus  

What constitutes a decent size?  I mean, if I was going to insert something in my behind based on an asparagus sizing chart, I would have to say “I will take it how I like my asparagus.  Thin and fresh a lightly warmed through” because I don’t like those sprigs of asparagus that look more like a tree trunk.  I wont lie, I also don’t want anything inserted in to my rectum…especially not asparagus.  It is annoying enough that if you eat it your pee smells of it, but the idea of a bowl evacuation resulting in my bathroom smelling like a green house instead of roses like it does normally after I have been in there is disturbing.

The one thing the news story doesn’t mention is the mental health of the eel.  What if that poor eel was a vegetarian and the guy he ended up in was a meat eater?  It seems wrong.  It seems unfair.  It seems that people are missing the big story here.

Or.

Maybe the guy and the eel were lovers and during normal sexual intercourse, the eel had a heart attack and died in there?  Or the guy was so boring in bed that the eel fell asleep?  It is certainly a possibility…my wife often falls asleep during intercourse.  Her excuse is “Well, you are crap….I figure if I take a nap it will be over quicker”.  Quicker?  I already have a theoretical maximum participation of 18 seconds….and that has only been met once…what more does the girl want?  Anyway, yeah, that eel…I reckon there is more to this story which they haven’t told us.

The other thing is that the news story mentions:

The unlikely incident was confirmed this week by the Auckland District Health Board.

‘We can confirm that an adult male presented at Auckland City Hospital this week with an eel inside him,’ a spokesman said.

He added: ‘No further comment will be made out of respect for the patient’s right to privacy.’

Because I feel the need to punish myself a little more than I have been with the crazy races I have been running, I decided to join a gym.  The reason is that my upper body contains more fat than Donald Duck shortly after he has been plucked and placed in to a roasting tin, but before he enters the hot place for 90 minutes and some of that fat comes out.

Why the Donald Duck analogy? I hear you not really mention.  Well, I also like walking around with just a shirt on, while letting my tackle sway gentle in the breeze and as we have found from cartoons, it is socially acceptable.  
You never see Minnie Mouse go “Oh Jesus…Donald…you know what…no, just…ugh, I can’t look.  PUT IT AWAY!” do you?
Exactly.  Yet weirdly when I do it, my wife makes these vomiting noises and my eldest daughter mentions that my tail is on the front while the cats tail is on the back. 

Proof, ladies and gentlemen, that cartoons and real life are not as entwined as you may have once believed.  Times have moved on.  Sadly, I haven’t.

Anyway, yes…the gym.  Joined it.  Went once or 40 times in the last couple of months.  Just long enough that I can walk with bull in a china shop levels of intrepidation in to this post and mention just what I have seen there. Or, as I could also call it “The many personalities of the gym goer”.

Anyone who goes to a gym must have seen this.  The meek and the little TOO full of themselves.  The inbetweeners and the newbie vs “I live here, I own everything” imbecile.  It is fun.  Shall we begin?  Why the heck not.  Pointless stopping the post here.

The Newbie:  I like the newbie.  I was a newbie. We were all a newbie once.  You remain in newbie status until a newer newbie joins and focus is moved to them.  Including yours.  “Ah yes…I remember being at that stage!  Just 4 days ago when I joined!”.  They seem to feel the need to work like they are an ox in a field dragging some huge great cart full of the worlds heaviest material.  You can see them wishing you would stop looking in their general direction so they can take a break.

The “Will they notice?”:  The guy that gets on the machine, has it on the lowest level and still struggles.  That is fine, I am not judging that at all.  What I am judging is how when you are done, you put it up a good few levels and walk away so it looks like you were lifting WAY more than you actually can.  Hint:  We know!

The Competitor:  I hate the competitor.  The “Ah yes.  You just lifted that.  I should therefore go up 1 setting and amaze you with how strong I am.”  Or “I see you are on the rowing machine.  Watch as I go a little faster than you!”.  These are the people I want to punch.  I don’t want to mess about with the “Seriously…what are you doing?  Have you not noticed I kinda don’t care at all?” words and go straight for the “I am SOOO sorry…I seem to have broken your nose.”  Although the problem is…I am a little tooooo competitive.  So if they get on a machine next to me, I kind of work a little harder….or “a little harder than them”.  It is a disease. I need it to stop. Actually, I need for them to stop thinking “Look, he is a bit chubby…I will go show him up” because I then have to have an epic battle.  Fortunately, I win more than I lose.  Unfortunately, I am know that because I am keeping 
count.

The phone user:  WHY THE FECK ARE YOU HERE!  Cycling at the speed of snail, they sit there.  Talking on the phone.  Or texting.  “But they are at least exercising, Sy!”  No…no they aren’t.  They would be better off at home watching TV and having a slightly agitated leg.  They would burn more calories in laughing at a program about funerals than they will on that bike.  I saw one girl talk on the phone for the entire time I was there last week.  1.5 hours.  Talking.  You know what about?  No me neither. 

The “I don’t like my body”:  Hi, you seem to have turned up wearing a tent.  It is OK, you are here because you are trying to do something to improve your figure like all of us here…except her…the one on the bike…she is sooo freakin annoying.  Nobody is judging you.  It is OK.  Embrace normal gym clothing.

The “Look at my hat”:  He turns up with a baseball cap on.  He puts his stuff in the locker.  He walks up to the free weights.  He turns his cap around, looks at himself in the mirror and then he lifts those weights.  What a guy.

The Weights Group:  They stand in a group.  They talk about being a gas boiler repair man (they do at my gym anyway) before taking turns to lift weights  At which point they make noises like they are trying to crap out a thoroughbred stallion.  After that, they stand up, make some weird arm movement and stand in front of the mirror, put on some rose coloured glasses and stare at themselves lovingly.  “My god I am AWESOME!”.  Look at my pecs!  Look at my arms!  Look at my unbelievably puny legs where I don’t do ANY lower body work.  It  makes no sense.  Some  of them look like an upside down warning triangle.  And when you go near their machines or weights…wow, it is like walking up to a troop of baboons and kicking the baby one.

The washing is for wimps!:  Shower…and wash your clothes.  Seriously.  I often watch them while inbetween sets and all I hear is the snoopy theme and see pig-pen wandering about.   And what is that smell?  It could be body odour.  But it could also be napalm.

The fashion parade:  It is a gym.  It has a primary focus for someone to generally sweat.  You do NOT need that much makeup.  I won’t lie, if I was a single guy and there was a girl I was interested in, I wouldn’t be at the gym trying to pull her.  I would find a first impression of sweating over someone a little uncomfortable.  So really, save the makeup.  We really don’t care.  Well, those lot in the corner do, but they can’t see you because they are kissing their biceps and looking at that guy who just kicked the baby baboon.

Then there is the instructors.  I caught one of them measuring his arms the other day.  I was kind of happy to know it was ONLY his arms he had the tape up against.  I don’t want to get involved in THAT competition.

I probably missed a few due to a lack of interest in thinking anymore than I have already, so feel free to remind me in the comments section.

I bought a bunny.

A white fluffy baby bunny.

A white cute, fluffy, baby wabbit.

It is pure white and has red eyes.  (So at least it takes after me with the eyes)

It is called Elmer (as in “ooohh…I am gonna git that pesky wabbit).  I am referring to it as “it” because I have zero idea if it is a boy or girl.  But being that my cat got up the duff on her first time out, I am not getting another one for it to have some company until I can confirm what it is.

Oh. And it hates me. 

But seems to enjoy the company of every other member of the household.

The cats think it is Christmas.  You can see the joy in their eyes as they think “Sooo…you get annoyed when I bring in dead or partially alive animals…but you seem to have actually imported our food?”  They spend their days sat on top or in front of the cage.  You can see in their eyes they are working out how to get in there.   Of course, last night I put that bunny on the floor.  The boy cat came sauntering in to the kitchen without a care in the world.  The bunny took one small hop towards it and the cat shat itself and legged it out of the window.  I should rename that cat to “Killer” or something. What a wimp.

It adores the kids and my wife.  My eldest daughter can pick it up and it sits there and takes a nap.  But if I pick it up you can actually hear it scream in its head.  It struggles to get away and ultimately takes a crap on me and then empties its bladder over me.  It then sits there.  Its twitchy nose staring at me.  As if to say “Ha.  Take that!  By the way….you stink of pee…have a wash”.  I hate that wabbit.

To be honest, if it takes a leak on me again after I show it love (no, not that kind…) then it is going to find one of its paws on my keyring, two others hanging from my ears, sell the fourth and make my wife use its tail as a makeup remover.  I will cook the little bugger, eat it and it’s ears will be used to pick the chunks of bunny meat from my teeth.

Whose idea was it to get a friggin bunny??? 

But you know, I am not convinced it isn’t in a power struggle with me.  It is what makes me think it is a boy bunny.   Boy bunnies are like that.  It looks at me.  Staring at me from its cage when I watch TV.  I can see it plotting my demise. I have started to do random cage checks to see if I can find evidence.  All I found was a pencil and a notepad with a picture of a what looked like a family portrait.  I could see my children, the 3 cats, my wife and a bunny.  They were standing next to what looked like a grave.  And the bunny was smiling.  I don’t really know what that means, but it is good that it has taken up art.  Everyone needs a hobby.

I also found a shopping list.  I have no idea why it is buying rope, wood from “Caskets r us”, plots of land and a kitchen knife set.  Maybe it is building a playarea in the cage?  Not sure.  It also had a second shopping list.  Some cat nip, some kids toys, some girlie products.  I am guessing it hasnt got me anything yet.  I understand though, I am notoriously difficult to buy for. 

And you know, catnip doesnt work on me anymore….which is good because the last time…well…it wasnt pretty.  There I was high as a kite on catnip bunny kicking my kids toys at my wife.   The cats confiscated it and I went to a treatment centre.  I have been catnip clean for 8 months now.   When it comes to catnip I advocate the “Just say meow” line.

But you know…I will keep looking until I find that evidence that it is out to get me.  And I will keep my wits about me.  I have started a plan to become stronger.  To be more.  To prepare for that day when the Human/Bunny battle commences.

Of course, if I am wrong and I am incorrectly accusing that poor fluffy white baby wabbit of plotting my demise…well…the little git doesn’t like me anyway.  So nothing lost.