Seasons change, just check social media.

As we turn the page into October, the signs of the fall season in Michigan are all around us.  We have football, leaves changing and the ever shortening daylight each day.  However, none of these scream out fall as much as the changing social media posts of all the lovely females.  After days of scientific research I think I have firmly established the seasonal posting pattern of the Femalus Basicus (my own technical term). Let’s break it down shall we?

Summer time social media posts for our lady friends revolve around a few core issues that must be followed.

  • Toes – Pictures of their toes must be posted any time those bare feet are let loose. At the beach, by the pool, in a lounge chair. It doesn’t matter.  A sunny July day in Michigan means I am going to see more hooves than if I lived at a horse farm.
  • Water – A close relative of the toe post. The water picture is absolutely crucial to female social media status.  Ocean, lake, pool, pond, fucking mud puddle. It doesn’t matter. If there is water near we must photograph it and proclaim how amazingly relaxing and soothing it is.
  • Detroit Tigers fandom – From roughly April until football season we are treated to repeated posts proclaiming the love of “their” boys. Listen, being a fan is great but let’s be honest here, when the girls are screaming “Tiger fan” what they are really saying is “I want to get stadium sunburned drinking $11 Miller Lites and looking at 25 year old boys in tight white pants.”  You are not fooling anyone cougar nation.
  • Boobs – Perhaps my favorite topic, summer posting would not be complete without some tastefully done photos highlighting the “girls.” Bathing suit boobs, tank top boobs and low cut top boobs, making sure to get just the right cleavage photo while maintaining your unskankiness is becoming an art form.  Keep on keeping on girls, you won’t hear complaining from us.

Let’s now forward ourselves to our current Fall season and check out what content the ladies are providing us now.

  • Pumpkin Spice everything – Truth be told, in the world of Femalus Basicus, Fall just doesn’t even exist without pumpkin spice. Coffee, candles, windshield wiper fluid it better be pumpkin spice or it’s not happening at all.
  • Boots and Leggings – Again, Fall is merely a suggestion until the leggings and Uggs come out. 72 in October?  Who gives a shit, here come the leggings and boots.
  • Apple Orchard – Deep inside the girls know that the trip to the orchard for cider and donuts is really a slow death march through Dante’s 9 rings of Hell that no one really wants to attend. Dry donuts, overpriced juice and kids that would rather chew their own arm off than be there is an absolute must to be posted along with the obligatory family photo showing fake smiles masking the boredom.
  • Football – Of course sports are huge in the fall and in Michigan it comes down to a basic question, are you a Wolverine or a Spartan? Tiger gear gets put away and out comes the hoodie of choice for your favorite team.  Facebook profile pics get highlighted in green or blue and although most of the girls wouldn’t know a screen pass from a screen door you can bet your ass Saturday means beer, chili and some pigskin (this means football girls).

I hope you guys enjoyed the post and it’s nice to be back having some fun again.  Just remember no one loves the Basic Bitch as much as this guy, so just take it for the fun it was meant to be.  Please comment and share please, I appreciate the support.

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The Grocery Store Diaries

Good evening my fine readers I hope that this Wednesday finds you all feeling incredibly happy, healthy and wise.  If not, I hope you at least have copious amounts of alcohol available to get you through the rest of your day.  As you know my recent blogs have been primarily focused on my descent into workout and healthy eating hell and I want you to know that the pain and suffering continue unabated.  There is literally zero reward for this bullshit yet I continue to give it a mostly half ass effort so that occasionally someone may look at me and say, “Wow, you look a little less fat than you used to.  Good for you.”  In order to not bore my friends and fans with another tale of fitness terror I decided that this evening I was going to pen a blurb that I think everyone can relate to, the always dreaded trip to the grocery store.  Over the last few trips to our local superstore I have noticed a few things that I just feel have to be mentioned for the benefit of society.

Let us begin by discussing the glaring difference in how both the male and female species attack a trip to the store.  I am absolutely mesmerized by the female ability to turn a 6 item trip to Meijer into a 2 ½ hour shopping vacation.  Understand, if I am sent to the store to pick up 4 or 5 items guess what I am going to come home with?  Those fucking items.  You know what my agenda is?  Getting the hell out of the store in the shortest amount of time possible.  I watch these lovely ladies strolling down each and every aisle, sipping Tim Hortons, chatting away with the complete strangers and I think to myself, do you not have homes?  Are your children so badly behaved that you are hiding in the pasta aisle for 40 minutes even though nothing in that aisle was on your list?  Meanwhile I am sprinting through the store like Usain Bolt hoping to God I don’t make eye contact with anyone I may know.

I would now like to continue my rant by calling out a few people in the store that are definitely on my “they deserve a throat punch” list.   Let’s start with the evil beast that we shall refer to as the “How about I hog the whole damn aisle” person.  This toolbox is the person who will park the cart right in the middle of the aisle and then shop on both sides while completely impeding traffic from both directions as if they were the only fucking person trying to shop.  A close relative to this heinous monster is the shopper that treats the trip to the store as a giant social event.  Stopping in the aisle to chat with everyone, asking stupid ass questions to the workers stocking the store and generally just being a menace.  Listen here Barbara, this isn’t fucking Happy Hour at TGIF Fridays, how about you skip your happy ass down the aisle and save the idle chit chat for a different time, some of us just want taco seasoning and to go the fuck home.  While I am on the topic of grocery store chatting can I please send a public service message to all of the hard working cashiers out there?  Do me a solid and for the love of God please stop with your attempts at witty banter and heartfelt family stories in the checkout line.  I am going to be honest here, I don’t give a frog’s fat ass that your family also tried the Havarti cheese I picked out or that you think my shoes are cool or you wish you could steal one of the beers I am buying because you have had a long day.  I appreciate the work you do, I honestly do, but a simple, “Did you find everything you need?”  Along with a nice “Please and thank you” will get our asses out of the store faster which is really the end goal here.  I will now save my last throat punch for what has become an epidemic at our local stores.  Of course I am referring to the shopper that shall be named, “Completely incapable of using a self checkout” person.  Let me give it to you straight, if you have 326 items with 48 coupons, 9 bottle return slips and 7 rainchecks please do us all a favor and go through a fucking line with a cashier.  If you don’t know what a UPC code is, go find a line with a cashier.  And I beg you, if you are just technologically averse please go find the line with the eager cashier who would love to chat with you about that awesome brand of kitty litter you purchased.

OK folks, my rant is over as I think this is long enough but rest assured my keen observation skills will continue as we continue to fight the good fight towards more productive shopping.  Thanks for reading and please feel free to comment and share.

Fitness Follies– Rock Bottom

Well folks this Sunday morning finds your fearless author in a bit of a conundrum.  I find myself motivated to write you an inspiring tale of personal growth, heroism and the power of the human spirit.  However, what you are going to get are the words of a broken man who has reached rock bottom.  Rock bottom you may ask, my God what is it? Drugs? Alcohol? Common Street Hookers?  Worry not my friends, although I am slugging back a beer as I write this it is none of these things.  What HAS broken me down are three very disturbing words, Physical Fucking Fitness.

As many of you know from previous blog posts and Facebook updates your intrepid author has been on about a 10 week journey into the planet known as The Gym.  I have regaled you with stories of my personal pain and suffering, shared with you the joys the of sharing a locker room with naked shaving guy and watching 110 pound women run 27 miles and then bench press 12 times their body weight.  Meanwhile I huff and puff through the workout circuit and try not to get my fat ass ejected off the fucking treadmill.  While all of this is depressing in and of itself last week began my death spiral into my current state of desperation.  You see The Blonde Who Shall Not Be Named added another layer of Hell into my life when she instituted a little program called Meal Planning last Sunday.  It seemed innocent enough she claimed it would help with grocery shopping, save us some money and possibly add a little better food into our diet.  What she failed to inform me was that my work lunches were going to feature a steady diet of food that even a self-respecting rabbit might pass up.  To say it was a culture shock to my previously Taco Bell loaded diet plan would be an understatement.  I found myself in a constant state of starvation where even a roller hot dog at the local gas station was looking like a damn delicacy.  I swear I was ready to risk food poisoning for some fucking carbs at that point.

So, all of this leads us to today where this guy finally hit rock bottom.  It started out innocently enough, I woke up feeling great and then the blonde Voldemort (oops, I said it) thought it would be a great idea to hit the gym to start the day.  I was not in the mood at all but I had skipped yesterday so it had to be done.  The real problem wasn’t just in the going to gym part but the fact I was freaking starving so in a move of pure brilliance I suggested to the lovely and talented One that today would be a great day for a party sub.  That’s right folks, 2 feet of glorious meat and cheese and piles of heavenly fucking carbs.  I mean Michigan is playing for the Big Ten title and March Madness is upon us how am I supposed to survive this on cucumbers alone?  I was actually in utter shock when she said, “Okay, I will call and order one for you and the boys since I have a busy day anyway.”  Although this did temporarily bolster my mood I did still hit the gym with exactly zero motivation for any activity.  I half assed the treadmill, slow walked through some of the machines all the while dreaming of ham, turkey and piles of bread.  Now this is where things really go off the damn rails for your hero.  We go the local superstore to pick up the sub and all of a sudden I am like a virgin in a whore house, every single thing looks like the greatest food I have ever seen.  In hindsight it was like I was actually outside my body watching myself dart down aisles throwing shit in the cart with reckless abandon.  Frozen Burritos?  Fucking A right.  Fish sticks?  Didn’t even know they still made them but they are in the cart now.  Hot Dogs, Buns and Coney supplies?  Damn right.  A case of beer and snack chips?  Mandatory at this point.  I finally calm down and we make our way to the checkout and the Beautiful One says, “Would you look at our cart?  I feel like I just shopped for a fraternity house.”  This is when the stark reality finally set in, there is absolutely zero chance a complete lifestyle change will ever work for me.  Everyone has been so supportive the last few weeks with their, “I’m proud of you for sticking with it.”  And of course when they look at you and blatantly lie with the, “Man, you are looking thin” bullshit.  That’s great Chief but the scale still cries out loud when I step on it.  I surrender, take all of your carb free, kale smoothie, plain salad shit and leave me alone to my bacon cheeseburger.  I can’t do it, I admit it.  Guess what, I love fucking cheese.  I worship at the altar of pasta.  Taco Tuesday?  That’s for beginner’s bitches, how about taco week?  Bottom line here is whatever success occurs at the gym will immediately be negated by the onion rings I will inevitably jam down my pie hole.  You know what, I am ok with that.  If this working out thing only helps me from ballooning into Jabba the Hut type proportions I guess I will have to take that as a small victory.

Have a great Sunday folks and as always please comment and share on the blog and Let’s Go Blue!

Fitness Follies – The aftermath

Alright friends, last week I took a moment to share my hopeless attempt at going to the gym and doing this thing that much thinner people call “Working Out.”  I promise that I will not bore you all the time with reports from Death Row but many people have asked for a brief update on how this first week went.  I wasn’t even going to bother but you know what? I will take one for the team and give you a view from those of us with body fat higher than the National Debt and who’s idea of fitness is “I’m gonna fitness this Steak and Cheese up in my face.”

As I mentioned in the previous post, I had no fucking idea how anything in a gym even works, if you would have dropped me in a jungle in Nigeria I probably would have been as comfortable as I was walking into this hellhole.  I am not gonna lie, it was as intimidating as Hell.  However, a funny thing happened those first couple days, even though I almost got ejected off of an elliptical like Goose getting killed in Top Gun no one blatantly laughed at me.  Put it this way, I am the guy that was so scared of a damn treadmill that I put it on turtle speed and still hung on to the safety bars.   Apparently, my fat ass making a mockery of myself really didn’t affect those 2% body fat bastards who were too busy staring at themselves in the mirror to even acknowledge my impending death.

This is the point where I want to make a couple of observations regarding the folks at the gym, they actually seem to be ok people, deranged lunatics trying to kill themselves but still nice.  Being a judgmental bastard myself I started putting labels on some of these people.

#1 This person shall be named “What do you mean there are only mirrors on three of the walls” person.  I understand that mirrors are there so you can look and make sure that you are killing yourself properly, I get it.  But are they really there so you can check that your ass looks sweet in your yoga pants or that you look like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson as you just aimlessly walk around with a 700 pound dumbbell in your hand?  I know one thing, I personally find places to work out where there is zero chance I get a glimpse of myself.

#2 “The Social Chairman” I am not gonna lie, this guy may be a hero and my spirit animal.  From what I can gather his only purpose is to put on $200 worth of Nike workout gear and then just walk through the gym talking to people about his family, his upcoming vacation to Florida or any other random topic.  If a person can lose calories from running their mouth this dude is fucking Usain Bolt.  He is hero to all of us.

#3 I am going to name this fella “Way to comfy being naked in the locker room guy.”  I get it, it’s a locker room, there is gonna be nudity.  That’s absolutely fine to a degree but do we really have to stand around the locker room buck naked and discuss Middle Eastern peace problems, Tigers Spring Training and the Federal Reserve?  Come on dude, it’s hard to take your opinions seriously when you are in there pontificating in your birthday suit.

Bottom line here is I actually did hit the gym 6 of the last 8 days and the scary thing is I can actually see a difference.  No, I am not bench pressing a Silverado or running a marathon but there is a difference.  I went from literally being able to do the elliptical for 60 seconds without stopping to doing 6 minutes effortlessly.  I have upped weight and reps on other machines as well.  Obviously, I write all of this in good fun but for those of you sitting on the fence about giving it a try, just know this, it freaking sucks.  There is no fun (other than people watching) and the pain is a real fucking thing.  However, my friends, I plan on continuing and I hope you will all be ready to purchase my 2018 glamour calendar entitled “ The Men of The Lottery Commission.”

Fitness Follies

Well dear friends, today started a brand new chapter in the life and times of your fearless hero, I actually rolled my butt out of bed and went over to the Davison Athletic Club and attempted this little thing that many of you like to call, “working out.”  My lovely and talented Rachel has been going and exercising quite regularly so in a show of support I figured the least my fat ass could do would be too join her and see how it goes.  In my life I have never set foot in a gym or training facility and any exercise I got was from searching aimlessly for my lost golf balls in the woods or running to the refrigerator for a cold beer and a snack.  So, how did it go you may be asking?  Well, let me cut right to the chase, if I had an option of going back again or taking an all-inclusive vacation in Fallujah I would literally have to take a few minutes to make up my mind.  Just the act of typing on this laptop is causing me pain in areas of my body that I didn’t even know existed. I am also concerned that my training partner / instructor is taking great joy in the fact that I am hobbling about the house like an 85 year old man.  I had begged her to take it easy on me due to my “newbie” status but apparently putting her in a gym setting turns her into the drill sergeant from “Full Metal Jacket.”  So, let’s take a second and summarize this morning’s activities.

We get to the gym and enter the fitness area and the room is bustling with activity.  I stare at the machinery and think to myself, so this is what the inside of a Russian labor prison must look like.  As I stand there in a state of abject terror Rachel says to me, “Let’s go over and warm up on the elliptical.”  Now, I have heard the term elliptical before so I thought to myself alright that should be low on terror and fairly safe for my old, fat body.  Yeah, that was mistake number one, we shall now and forever moving forward call the elliptical “the sliding trapeze of death.”  After taking a few minutes to understand the contraption, I proceeded to spend roughly 5 minutes trying to not fall off of the fucking death machine.  I am sure I had all of the elegance of everyone’s drunk Uncle Harry dancing to “Old Time Rock and Roll” at any wedding reception.  After successfully not killing myself and apparently burning 30 whole calories (whoopdee fucking doo) and feeling pretty positive about that, my favorite gym gangster swished her blonde hair and says lets go over and do some crunches.  I walk over to this machine and there are a bunch of basketball type objects and it is set up sort of like a pop a shot game that you see in sports bars everywhere.  Now we’re talking, I mean this sets up perfectly for my particular skill set, shooting baskets in the bar while drinking beers and eating chicken wings.  Why had she not let me start right here?  I mean this has got to be perfect for me, right?  Um, hell fucking no.  Somehow I end up on that damn floor with these weighted death balls and I am supposed to do sit ups and toss them in the pop a shot?  What the hell, where is the beer and cheese sticks?  I apparently had been sold a bill of goods on this one and after doing this 30 times, and for the record draining all 30 shots like a fat, bloated Steph Curry, I have basically lost all feeling in my upper body and midsection.  I am not going to go into the details of every exercise, but let’s just say there were things done to my body that even the S&M crowd would blush at.

In summary, I am not sure how I feel about this whole thing, I was hoping to get myself in better shape, maybe hit the golf ball a little farther this summer, but at this point my core muscles are crushed and I have lost feeling in many extremities.  I am still staggered that people actually do this voluntarily and for fun (I’m looking at you, three girls in the corner with a combined weight of 326 pounds, 1% body fat and the strength to bench press a Subaru) I already hate them on principle alone even though I am sure they are delightful people.  I have heard the phrase “your body is your temple” but to be honest mine feels more like a dilapidated Moose Lodge right now (no offense to all my Moose peeps out there) and I am not sure I will even be able to get out of bed tomorrow morning.  I am in pain from head to toe and to all the people who always said they get such a “high” from exercise, just shut the hell up, I can now verify for a fact that this garbage was made up at some point, probably by the CEO of Planet Fitness or some shit.  There is no “high” just pain and more pain.

Thanks everyone for reading and please share and comment.

The Campaign Begins

First of all I want to thank you for taking time out of your busy day to come visit the new online campaign headquarters for the Craig for President movement.  As you know, I just announced my candidacy yesterday so as of right now campaign donations are pretty light and as of right now I have raised exactly .42 cents that I found in the dryer last night doing laundry.  So, until things really get moving I will continue to use this free platform to keep you abreast of the campaign.  You can be sure there is no greater Washington outsider than this guy and Lord knows by looking at my 401k balance that Wall Street doesn’t even know I exist so this campaign will be completely transparent in our financial dealings.  Alright, enough of that, let’s get down to some issues.

National Defense — This is a big one and everyone has a right to be concerned.  Here are my thoughts, if we learned nothing else in the Super Bowl other than Peyton Manning sucks we learned a great defense can be enough to lead you to a championship.  As it just so happens Super Bowl MVP and superstar linebacker Von Miller is a free agent this year and my idea is to hire him as Secretary of Defense.  Now I know he doesn’t come from a traditional military background but frankly, who gives a shit.  We just explain the world to him like this.  All those ISIS bastards and crazy ass Iranians and North Koreans are basically like quarterbacks looking to scramble for a 1st down.  Once they step outside the safety of their pocket protection he basically has free reign to go after them in a seek and destroy mission much like he did to Cam Newton and Tom Brady in the playoffs.  He is going to be pricier than you average military man since he is looking at probably making 10 million or so a year in the NFL so we will just have to build like one less fighter jet each year to afford him.  I think it’s worth it.

The Budget–  I am no accountant, I barely passed that class at any level in which I took it and Mr Dave Young, former teacher and A.D. at Davison High can attest to that but I do know a few things about balancing a budget.  At the core it’s quite simple, don’t buy a bunch of shit you can’t afford.  Simple, right?  For the last 4 or 5 years I have tormented the lovely and talented Rachel with all of my grand plans for wanting things like a beach house in Key West, a Ferrari and most of all a helicopter.  After she gets done rolling her eyes she often gets quite animated in explaining that all of those things sound wonderful however our lucrative two income budget involves the salary of a government worker and a kindergarten teacher.  My parents always referred to this as having champagne taste on a PBR budget well folks the harsh reality is our government agencies better get good and damn ready to start enjoying the taste of PBR under my presidency.  If you are some ding dong governor in Alaska looking for federal cash to build a bridge to nowhere you better look somewhere else that bottle Dom Perignon is not coming out of the fridge.

Homeland Security — Again, I am no expert in the field of terrorist tracking or anything of the like.  However, what I am is a dad and future husband and owner of a little piece of property here on lovely Valley Vista.  I think everything I need to know about protecting ourselves can be learned by watching my idiot dog.  We have no fancy security system around here because we have the Princess Puppy.  Why is she so successful at protecting us?  Because she barks at every fucking thing that moves.  Mailman, UPS guy, stray leaf it doesn’t fucking matter.  So that’s how we will protect our country.  We will “bark” at everything, it will be a little annoying for those of just going about our business like my poor neighborhood mailman but you know what we have a better chance of finding the assholes out there that want to do us harm if we are constantly looking out the front window barking at everything.

 

 

Housework Done Half Assed

Friday night the lovely and talented Rachel and I were discussing the fact that due to the holidays and her recent surgery the condition of our house had reached the level we lovingly refer to as, “filthy trash pit.”  Don’t get me wrong, we are not living in 3rd world squalor and we have a lovely home but let’s just say some of the corner dust bunnies appeared to be reproducing faster than regular rabbits.  We went to bed Friday evening determined to attack the problem Saturday morning before we had to make a road trip to watch our son Tyler play in a basketball tournament that afternoon.

So let’s fast forward to Saturday morning shall we.  They day dawned gray and rainy yet your hero (me) woke up determined to start attacking the situation at hand.  A natural problem solver I started the operation with a large pot of coffee and a wasted 45 minutes cruising the Internet.  While not very productive it did help me get focused and after the last of the coffee I found myself getting into the cupboard for the dusting supplies.  My senses were laser focused as I walked into the battlefield (living room and computer room) and assessed the situation.  It was truly worse than I imagined and I briefly considered throwing up the white flag and retreating back to the safety of my pillows and blankets.  However, I recalled the heroic and inspirational line from Animal House when the toga party was being threatened and John Belushi rallied the troops with the famous phrase, ” Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?  NOOO.”  So, with steely resolve and an intimidating glare that would make Clint Eastwood proud I charged onto the field of battle.

I was slowly making my way through the project when I realized something was amiss.  My wing woman, The Hall to my Oates, the Milli to my Vanilli was nowhere to be found.  This can’t be right I thought, we both agreed that this house was mere seconds away from being condemned due to filth (slight author exaggeration) and yet I didn’t see or hear her tackling any projects.  I wandered into the living room expecting to see a flurry of blonde haired ambition turning our home into a Better Homes and Gardens worthy showplace.  Imagine my surprise when I looked into the room and a see a lovely blonde creature curled up on the couch with a blanket, a pillow and the dog and her book.  I stood incredulously, dust towel in hand as I stared at her.  She glanced at me from the couch and said, “Yeah, I’m just not feeling that great this morning.”  I understood as we had both been battling a cold over the week but dammit it was time to power through and save this home from impending doom.  I was walking over to the fireplace to continue dusting when I heard from the couch, “Hey, will you make sure to dust the window sills and stuff also?”  I stopped, counted to three in my head, (they say you should do this before saying something you will regret) and looked at that beautiful face and said in my most blatantly sarcastic voice, “Sure sweetie, whatever you want.”  Seeing that she is not just all beauty and no brains I could see she had caught on to the sarcasm.  She looked at me and said, ” Well you know, you are kind of a half ass duster.”  Boom, there it fucking was, the nuclear bomb had dropped.  I stopped, still reeling from the comment.  I was shocked, primarily because “half ass” or not I am the ONLY damn person in this house who dusts any fucking thing.  Me, just me.  No one else.  The blonde ambition tour hates dusting, refuses to do it and as for the two boys, let’s just say I don’t know if 1/8 ass is a word but it would accurately describe their effort at doing chores.  I had to ask myself, self, would you prefer a half ass dusting job or a no ass dusting job?  It’s like asking if I would rather have half a pitcher of beer or no pitcher of beer.  Pretty easy choice right?

After regaining my senses I decided that this heinous attack from the blonde has actually inspired me towards a new business venture.  I am gonna call it “Half Ass House Cleaning.” That’s right, if you need your laundry washed and only partially dried, I am your man.  Vacuum half the floors?, I got that shit.  Want half of those dirty dishes done?, psssshhh that’s child’s play for me.  Normally I would say that if life gives you lemons do a shot of tequila but in this case I am going to take this harsh and uncalled for attack on my person as a way to a better life.   I have a feeling there is going to be huge demand for my services so make sure to call me at 1-800-half – ass to schedule your service.

Thanks everyone for reading and please share with your friends and family if you like.  You can also follow me on Twitter @Craiger211