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I finally have the chance to write the words I’ve dreamed of typing for months:
“And we’re back!”
Ah, my Xanga cuties—I have missed you so!
I said “we’re,” but it’s just me (sorry, conspiracy theorists). Saying “And we’re back!” somehow sounds a lot better than “I’m back!” Maybe because when you see latter you immediately think of the annoying, drawn out “I’m baaaaaack!” Ugh…nails on a chalkboard, I tell you.
A brief rundown of what I’ve been doing for the past two months—I mean, besides studying all day. I grew a bar exam beaver—it’s like Conan O’Brien’s unemployment beard, except it’s in my crotch area, and black instead of orange.
And…that’s about it.
Wait, I did go to the gym every now and then to break the monotony of my daily schedule…oh, that reminds me: I need your advice on something. I had an awkward gym situation a few weeks ago and wasn’t sure how to deal with it without making things even more awkward. By the way, how many of you pictured the annoying “Jersey Shore” asshat “The Situation” when you read the word “situation”? He’s completely tainted the word now. And he’s brandishing his nickname like it’s synonymous with sex appeal, when really “The Situation” he’s bringing around is that of a fug-faced douche bag.
As I was saying: I was at the gym a few weeks ago and had a run-in with awkwardness. My equipment of choice is the stationary bike because I can play my PSP or DS while pedaling away for half an hour. On that day, however, the bikes were all taken—which didn’t settle too well with me because I was in the middle of “Assassin’s Creed: Bloodlines,” and only allowed myself to play when I was at the gym. But with all the bikes taken, I wasn’t going to be able to continue Altair’s journey!
Just when I was leaving climbing onto one of the elliptical machines, an old man got up out of the bike he was using. And he noticed me right away—probably because I was giving the bike the crazy eyes and shoving people out of my way—and made a here-you-go gesture.
I went over to the station, looking all forward to killing Templars and finding their coins, and then saw this:
There were giant puddles of something on both sides of the bike. I first assumed that maybe someone had spilled water on the floor, but there wasn’t a trail of water connected to either puddle—something you’d expect to see if someone’s water bottle was knocked over. And the roof wasn’t leaking either. The puddles were just sitting there next to the bike.
Mystery puddles with no obvious source? There was only one explanation left: It was sweat. Lots and lots of sweat.
But the oceans of sweat weren’t what bothered me. I mean, they were pretty bad, but what really, really got to me was this small river of I-don’t-know-what dripping from the seat:
I know we’re all individuals, but I’m pretty sure we share at least one common belief: fluid dripping from a place where butts are usually found is not okay. When a person sees that, he isn’t thinking about the possibility that the liquid is just water. No, he’s thinking, “Dude, that’s crotch water!”
And that’s exactly what I thought. Given that I was in a gym, and that the bike had just been used by someone who was standing in front of me and sweating profusely, there really wasn’t any viable alternative other than to conclude that the little river was nut sweat.
Why would I think otherwise anyway? If this man’s armpits were capable of sweating puddles, then his nuts could be just as, um, juicy? Talented?
So there I was, standing in front of the bike that was surrounded by the Sweatcific and Sweatlantic Oceans, and had sack juice/talent dripping down the seat (perhaps to form the Ball-tic Sea? Mwahaha…ugh…). I was better off using the elliptical.
But crap! The old man was still standing there, telling me I could use the bike now that he was done. Now what? I couldn’t say I didn’t want to use the bike because we did the silent “You want the bike next?”/“Sure!” thing. And I didn’t want to tell him I changed my mind because he would know why, and it might hurt his feelings—something I did not want to do. This guy wasn’t a “To Catch a Predator” old man you’d kick down a flight of stairs. He had this adorable grandpa look…the kind of look you think of whenever you imagine the perfect grandfather.
I didn’t know what to do, so I thought, “Maybe I’ll just deal with it and use the bike.” It was just sweat right? Doesn’t matter that it might have come from his balls. It wasn’t going to kill me or anything.
But then I was like, “What if grandpa was a ho when he was younger and got some sort of STD? Or what if grandpa’s a ho now?” In that case, even though the runoff couldn’t kill me, it could be all diseasey—like a miniature Ganges River, full of particles of the dead (we are talking about an old man here) and other fetid goodies.
I stood there thinking of all the horrible possibilities while Old Man Sack River waited for me to sit down on the bike. I don’t know why he was still there, but he made me feel all sorts of pressure…
Pressure? That gave me an idea. What is the middle ground between sitting on a stranger’s genital sweat and hurting that person’s feelings?
Making an ass of yourself, that’s what. And you know what’s the quickest way to pull off a self-assification? Faking a massive bowel movement.
It works every single time.
There has to be a better way out of this situation! And I know you have the answer because you’re smarter and way more rational than I am. Tell me: What would have been the better course of action?!
Posted 3/3/2010 at 2:5 AM
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I’m pretty sure it works.
You’ll have to give your insurance to the truck driver in front and get it from the one who hit you. At least you weren’t hurt and the police report will show you were not at fault which means no points, and your insurance should cover the damage. I find it easier to go through your own insurance and let them fight to get repaid from the other driver’s insurance.
” move. 
absolutangel64 
