If Blogging Were an Olympic Sport I Would Have Quit in Middle School Because I Hate Changing in Public.

I haven't been feeling too bloggy lately.  Basically I've got nothing to write about.  I just don't feel that strongly about anything in my life right now.  I don't hate anything or anybody, which always makes for a great blog post.  I mean, Crocs kind of bother me, but I'm even starting to feel a little fondly towards them because they look pretty cute on little kids and when hot guys wear them they're not a total deal-breaker like a Teva or a Birkenstock would be.   I haven't been consuming any media lately so I don't have any celebs to talk about and I don't have any friends so I don't go out and drink a lot so I don't embarrass myself (except for the the average fist-pump-in-the-grocery-store-because-of-coupon-for-free-cup-of-genric-brand-yogurt kind of way) so I don't wake up in the morning with overwhelming fear and loathing which causes me to want to think (or write on a blog) about ANYTHING aside from my own fucked up, retarded life.  Essentially, I'm good for now.  And "good" does not for interesting bloghorreah make.

So I sez to myself I sez "Self, you've got to got out and get yourself some FEAR!  Where in the world can you come up with some LOATHING?  Hmmm.  Let me think.  Oh yeah, MOTHERFUCKING GOTHAM!!"  When I moved from NY to Boston I had developed such a massive case of fear and loathing that I believe it actually took control of my body and physically propelled me out of the Tri-State area.  The last thing I remember of being in New York was sitting on my brother's couch, paging through my outgoing text messages with horror and revulsion and the next thing I know I'm trudging through a snow drift outside of South Station.  My fear and loathing infested body somehow managed to get my decroded ass and 5 bags on a Fung Wah bus without the involvement my semi-psychotic  brain.  Nice job, Fear.   

So I figured, what better than a couple of days in the N to the Y to the C to get my brain riled up enough to spew out some garbage on this self-involved shit pile I call my blog?  Also, and the main reason for the trip was that Bob was on the Eastern seaboard for a couple of days and you know I'm not going to pass up an opportunity to see him whilst he was state-side.  Bob:  Your spectacles are magnificent.  But things didn't work out as I had planned.  When the morning of  my departure rolled around I was expecting to wake up at like 3:30am in the fetal position, with my eyes wide open, staring at nothing. (that's my F & L pose.)  But I didn't.  I woke up.  Oak and I drank coffee.  I got on the train, and by Ashton Kutcher's wife beater, I was sad to be leaving.  I wasn't fleeing the scene.  I'd managed to have a visit to NYC without leaving in a hail of bullets.  Fuck.  WHAT AM I GOING TO WRITE ABOUT NOW???

Well I'll tell you what I'm going to write about, and it's Olympic Racewalking.  This. Sport.  Is.  FANTASTICAL!  (With a capital testicle.)  Yes, I know.  God, you're all very predictable.  You're wondering how interesting or competitive a sport which involves walking can be.  Well. shut the fuck up.  This shit is real.  I only watched the women, because I think the male competition would have cause one of the aneurysms which obviously riddle my brain to explode like a blood-bloated mosquito feeding from a diner, lingering too long about the outdoor buffet.  (That sentence either deserves a Nobel Prize for Literature or made you queasy.  Either way, I rule.)  Okay, I'm not even sure where to begin.  I can imagine you've all inferred from previous entries that I idolize the thin.  Usually female athletes, although technically shapely, are too beefy for my taste because my ideal body weight ranges from infant - 34 lbs.  The athletes which compete in racewalking are just my cup of underweight tea.  These bitches is SKINNY.  The chick who won the competition weighed 94 lbs.  I mean, how can you walk wicked fast for like 2 hours, weigh 94 lbs., and not be dead?  That's mental toughness if I ever saw it!  And the actual form of the racewalkers is totally impressive as well.  I guess the name of the game is to walk as fast as you possible can, without actually running at any point.  There are judges all along the race track that hand out flags when you break form.  If anyone runs they can be disqualified.   Apparently, this involves swinging your arms about frantically and swiveling your hips in a figure eight motion thus propelling your tiny stick figure along at a rapid pace.   As a noted social and sports historian noted of the form "They look like drag queens sashaying down the catwalk."  Well played, Historian.  So basically, this sport involves wee, thin women, walking wicked fast, wearing tiny amounts of  clothing (at one point I think a chick pulled her uterus and you could see it from the outside), swinging their arms and swiveling their hips down a race track.  (Insert "Victoria Beckham at a half-off tanning salon sale" joke here, I suppose.)

I'm trying to figure out a good way to live out the rest of my days without having to get a real job.  (With all these aneurysms it shouldn't be too long.  *SIGH*.)   When I saw these brave women swaying swiftly down the race track in Beijing, dollar signs filled my mind.  I immediately began to think of how I could cash in on this phenomenon.  There has to be money in this.  Skinny bitches don't do shit unless there's money involved, right?  (The world of the very thin is shrouded in mystery for me.  At some point I'd like to spend a day in their shoes but my feet are too fat and they haven't yet invented a suit that can make that happen.  When they do I'm going to steal it.)  So my wheels begin to turn and I start to think of how we can send this competition commercial.  We'll obviously have to have a reality TV show about a novice racewalker who trains and competes until they're at the Olympic level.  Next thing, who do I know that is tiny, mentally tough, able to go long periods of time without food while displaying remarkable stamina (ie day-long drinking binges and hung-over walks from Soho to the UES).  Who's got incredibly pointy elbows that can cut a competitor down with one slash?  Who, at very word "contest" immediately begins to figure out what she's going to do when she wins because losing ain't in the vocab?  

Jen, when you get back from London we've got to start filming a pilot.  Mona, feel like playing the fierce competition who we want to hate but can't help but respect?

Note:  If anybody is actually reading this blog and doesn't now who Jen or Mona are, get a job or read a real blog.  Or offer me money to stop blogging.  All of the aforementioned options are acceptable.