This week’s FML Friday is brought to you by Wine Down The Gullet™. Wine Down The Gullet: when flavor isn’t even a remote consideration.
I’ve begun training once again, with a mind toward having the ability to run a half-marathon in the late fall. Because I’m a glutton. For food, punishment, and food-punishment in the form of exercise. And there’s nothing better than complaining about this journey every step of the way. I mean, Eff my Elle, right? This shit is HARD.
Well, soon my body will be hard, haters. These pipsqueaks below, though? Listen, I know I’m out of shape, but I’m not this out of shape, nor am I this stupid. So let’s judge the morons, shall we?
Jogging and adult diapers
Today, I went for a jog. I was 5 km away from home when I had a sudden urge to poop. I didn’t want to use the bushes, so I thought I could hold it in. I was wrong. FML
Sounds like an intense run. I hope it was a marathon, or at least a half marathon — like the one I plan to barely be able to run soon. Because unless you’re the kind of person who really gets into the advertising they show on the Price is Right, you shouldn’t be shitting your pants.
Oh but wait, you said it was a 5k? Get it together!
Relieving yourself prior to a jog is like peeing before a long roadtrip; you don’t want to have to stop — you’re in the groove, just you and the road and Not Peeing.
Next time you go for a yog, whether it’s leisurely or intense, maybe take a huge dump beforehand, right? There are two plusses to this strategy:
- I guarantee it’ll shave a full two minutes of your time because you’ll feel that much lighter; and
- You won’t accidentally shit your pants.
A simpler solution: next time get over yourself and commune with nature, bush-style.
Or just bike on the street all the time
Today, while riding my bike on the sidewalk,
I came across a ladder. To avoid bad luck, I swerved around it into the street. I got hit by a car. FML
So, fuckface, you like riding your bike on the sidewalk? They’ve developing an entirely new Circle of Hell for this slight against humankind. You’re riding what most jurisdictions call a vehicle, and you should be on the road. Because if it ain’t ladders you’re dodging due to some dumb-fuck old-wive’s tale, it’s people, children, dogs, other living creatures that you can crush. And that’s some REALLY bad luck.
Now you might flip it and say, “But cars could crush me too if I rode on the road.” Well, suck it up, you lazy spokeshit. Wear a helmet and the right gear and don’t “drive” like a tool. Remember you’re not a car and you’ll be fine.
And if I EVER see you riding your bike on the sidewalk and you’re not, like, a toddler, expect my fist to make sweet love to your face, you urban douchenozzle.
The males braaaaaain(s) and fitness
Today, I found out that the only way I can convince my husband to start working out is by convincing him that we are training for when the “zombie outbreak” happens. FML
I seriously doubt you’ll be Effing your Elle when the fucking apocalypse comes and your Adonis is carrying you in his arms while he streaks across the sky, because he’s been training so hard he can basically fly, you big whiner.
Different people are motivated by different things. For me, it’s got to be Wine Down The Gullet as my reward. For your man, it’s the certainty that when the dead rise from their graves and try to eat everyone’s brains, he’s going to be the Rick Fucking Grimes of your particular neighbourhood.
Bonus: with all that training motivation, when the unpreventable apocalypse comes and goes, he’ll be able to single-handedly repopulate the species (well, on the man-sauce side anyway). And you can be his beautiful if ungrateful queen.
Photo by Eric Schmuttenmaer on Flickr. Used under Creative Commons License