Bible Watch 2007

Imagine...California sun beaming down on prestine sand...there's a strong breeze...Pamela Anderson jumps off her lifeguard tower...in slow motion, she runs towards the water with a sense of urgency....carrying a bible.

More to come later...

Physical Therapist = Chiropractor?

I recently went to an orthopedic doctor who prescribed and recommended physical therapy for my patellar tracking disorder. Translation: My doctor referred me to a physical therapist for my knee problems. I have never been to a physical therapist, and I have always imagined them to be nurse-slash-trainer like. My first appointment was nothing like I would imagine. The office was basically one big gym space with a doctor's office receptionist counter and waiting/sitting area. The patients had little privacy in the gym. Most of the people I saw there had a limp or had some signs of limited mobility. I, on the other hand, had none of the symptoms. I wondered if my presence there was a result of my hypochondriac tendencies, or did I truly need physical therapy.

My first day, my therapist taught me 3 exercises to strengthen my hamstrings and VMO muscle, whatever that is. While going through the sets, I felt no strain. I started to think maybe this is borderline chiropractic. At the end of my session they placed two giant pillow-like cold packs on my knees and hooked electrodes to both sides of my knee caps. What is this? Labotomy for my knees? The sensation that followed felt like those static electric bolts contained in a giant crystal ball things you see at novelty stores wiggling through my knees. It was tingly and tasted like chicken. After I got home my knees became sore like no other. I moved like the patients I saw at the office.

Two days later, my knees were no longer sore. I think they even feel stronger, or perhaps it's a placebo psychosomatic thing. Afterall, I'm paying a good chunk of change per session; that might have something to do with it. I arrive at the office fully capable of full range of motion. This time three new exercises, and an hour after I leave the physical therapy office I am crippled. I thought you were supposed to enter crippled and leave fully capable, not the other way around. Maybe that's why everyone was limping around in the office; they are probably at level 16 exercises.

MIP vs MOP

As 2007 continues to barrel down the tunnel of time, two questions come to mind: Where the hell is my MIP? And where the fuck is The MOP? Well, I know the first one is lagging but surely to arrive sometime late this month to disappoint. However, there has been no specific time frame for the latter, that basically means 11:59:59AM on December 31st is still fair game. I have yet to receive any indication of The MOP's whereabouts. C'mon, throw me a friggin' bone here.

If and when The MOP arrives, I'd imagine our conversation to be like this:

Me: Where the fuck have you been?
MOP: What do you mean? I'm right on time.
Me: Dude, the cable guy has a better ETA than you.
MOP: Chill out, I'm here aren't I? I am all that you've been waiting for and a bag of hoho's.
Me: Gimme the hoho's. (Snatches the chocolate dessert from MOP's hands). You can go now.
MOP: (Looks stunned yet deliciously hot...then pouts like Zoolander, Magnum style)

When my MIP gets delivered by the unfortunate messenger, I'd imagine our conversation to be something like this:

Me: (Looking disinterested and knowing what's coming) So?
MIP: Here is your MIP, if you could read it over and sign and date at the bottom.
Me: (Scans the MIP document for anything to reject, finding nothing and everything) Like I have a choice. Totally screwed anyways.
MIP: That's not true, you can achieve most of it.
Me: Half the deadlines have passed.
MIP: Well, I think half of these are definitely reasonable, if not well within reach.
Me: Gimme the pen. (Signs with a flourish, throws pen and document back in MIP's face). You can go now.
MIP: (Looks flustered, sighs and hunches over, slouches away with scuffling footsteps)

Hooters Smooters

I had the pleasure, and I use the term pleasure loosely, of going to a Hooters restaurant for the first time in the company of all male co-workers. We had just undergone a day of grueling team building, some I try to block out from memory, and we needed a medal in liquid gold, perferably several. As I entered the establishment, I expected to see a sea of bright orange hot pants and white tanks. But to my disappointment, it was black t-shirt Friday as I learned from a more veteran restaurant goer. The waitresses were all clad in black tanks and black leotard like shorts with tan nylons, way less tacky than I had wished for. One waitress in particular stood out in an obvious-trying-too-hard-had-work-done kind of way. The veteran expressed disdain in the absurd proportionality of her physique.

Vet: That is just ridiculous.
Me: XXXL?
Vet: (shakes head in distaste)
Me: I don't understand, isn't that why you guys come here? Here it is this poor girl trying to please, and you're complaining about the excess. I don't understand.
Vet: Well, it's overboard.
Me: Maybe it's her thing.
Vet: Why would anyone spend all that money on her body just to work at Hooters, she must be a professional.
Me: That's not true, there's a Hooter's pageant for Hooter girls all over the US. Good prize money, I think it's a scholarship.

Then I just realized how absurd that sounded and shut my mouth.

We ordered a few pitchers and, of course, the famous wings. I have to admit, the wings were quite good. The nachos we ordered were mediocre, although they did receive bonus points for serving fake cheese nachos (the kind you only find at stadiums). Our waitress was very attentive at making sure everyone's beer was topped off at all times, talk about service! In addition, she demonstrated a wing eating technique using latex gloves...that's all I have to say about that. All in all, the experience was innocuous. I think I'm ready to hit a strip club.

You were Right

Yet another separation anxiety entry. My buddylist at work seems so much shorter even though only one person is absent from it. My super buddy is on a much deserved vacation. I, myself, am counting the days until I get to set foot in snooty London. This extended absence is probably what it will feel like when the day permanent departure comes to fruition. Already, I am going mad. Lack of lunch buddy, chat buddy, sounding board buddy, combat PITA buddy, no buddy.... Insult to injury, I am seeing the manipulative ways of Bug, or more accurately bitchy ways. I don't think I've ever met a bitchy guy that wasn't gay or from Jersey. Oh but wait, could it be his cycle's sync'ing up with mine? I do feel rather irritable despite a one day respite from work, and I'm cutting down on Starbucky doppio style. Too bad, we'll never get images to back up the horrors of a bachelor pad from hell. But at least we'll complete one Investigative Endeavor that is on Male PMS? BTW, you might have been the first, quite possibly only, person to receive their MIP at all. Word just got out that they are delayed yet again until the end of the month. That's ok, I think my stint here is numbered as well, maybe it's not worth waiting around for a bonus the company clearly does not want you to have.

Random Quote

I'm taking off faster than a prom dress.