Get Your Swole On

I was locked in my apartment complex's gym for about half an hour tonight with a nice Asian couple that was hesitant to use the building's second story window as an escape. Consequently, I stuck around with them and watched as an equally helpful neighbor attempted to open the deadbolt that stood between the sweaty gym air and our freedom with a hairpin and a flathead screwdriver. Ultimately we all took the window. I didn't make up a single syllable of that opening. That's just the kind of crap I find myself in from time to time.

As you might suspect yourself, there are a number of things wrong with this picture. For one, who the hell gets locked in the gym? The immediate culprit was a deadbolt whose key only staff has, so it clearly wasn't an ignorant resident. But why would a passing security guard or maintenance man assume no one was there? Well, because the three people doing cardio upstairs had the lights turned off. Sadly, I was one of them. You see, the couple was already up there, working away, with the lights off when I arrived, and I didn't feel comfortable just showing up and throwing the light switch. I mean, who the hell am I? I bring a Nintendo DS to the gym to keep my mind distracted from the burning sensation in my lungs when I ride the stationary bike, which I ride because the treadmill involves too much motion to actually play the DS. I don't really have a leg to stand on here. So I just hopped on a bike and pedalled (difficult without that leg), glancing between the ESPN on in front of the husband and the E channel before the wife, and as the three of us burned away dozens of calories to the blue light of flatpanel televisions, someone locked us in the gym.

I discovered almost immediately that a window on the second level would make for an easy escape, mainly because another resident climbed in through it and asked what was going on. And while the descent out the window was certainly possible, the wife in particular was having none of it, and for whatever reason I do the things I do, my brain decided it was poor form to leave them alone. Honestly, I'd be that douche on the Titanic politely allowing other people onto the lifeboats because of the poor Irish bastards drowning in coach. Anyway, that's what kept me there so long. That, and I was mildly curious to see if the new arrival actually had what it takes to pick a deadbolt with improvised tools. He did not. Still, he seemed a good guy. Sure he had a knife on his belt, and while the type of white guy who perpetually carries a knife on his hip is typically not the kind I want to toast a Natural Ice with, he seemed a good sort. He even said I should stop by his place to have a beer and play videogames some time. He probably plans to kill me and use my skin to make a dress, but with an invitation that charming, who knows?

Clearly, this absurd situation was a divine portent if ever I've seen one. The problem with any sign, as all you good semioticians know, is the ambiguity in interpreting them. I naturally assumed the Divine was suggesting I skip working out to stay home and invent new songs about my dog. My wife suggested I was supposed to stay in the gym longer to begin with. Touche. I'll be going back tomorrow, if only so that when the roof collapses on me I can tell my dearest "I told you so."

Drug Scandal Rocks NASCAR: Mullets to Fly at Half Mast

NASCAR officially joined the auspicious ranks of Major League Baseball, the Olympic Games, and Midget Tossing on May 1st when Jeremy Mayfield, one of the "sport's" noted auto-coach pilots, failed a drug test. It was mainly short essay and multiple choice questions, and while he did alright through the geography and, surprisingly, Native American history sections, he really tripped up on #32: "Are you on drugs?" Rather than opting for "a) No" or "b) Of course not; in fact, even asking me not only affronts my sensibilities as a sportsman but tarnishes the game itself," good ol' Jeremy circled "c) Fuck, I don't know. I'm way too stoned. Better make me pee in a cup."

Well, today ESPN broke the story wide open. In brazen defiance of convention, NASCAR's first documented positive drug test was for - you guessed it - crystal meth. I, for one, am shocked; I really had my money on some combination of huffing paint and popping a murderous amount of Flintstones chewable vitamins. Just goes to show you, I guess: you can take the Redneck out of the trailer park, but not out of the "Redneck Roundy-Round." NASCAR fandom has been rocked by this latest news, and many aficionados are too distressed by the revelation to finish brewing the latest batch of moonshine in their bathtubs; indeed, even the sultry arms of a first-cousin cannot distract these gap-toothed, hillbilly degenerates from their inconsolable loss.

Of course, I don't mean to suggest that the sluggish, cholesterol-ridden arteries of NASCAR have flowed with only pure red, white, and blue until this dark day. You see, this is the first year such drug testing has been instituted. In previous epochs, pit crews simply assumed the earthenware jug their driver was securely belting beside him was merely water to fight the dehydratin'. Clearly, they had no idea what was going on. One senior editor at ESPN even reports that a retired driver admits to having raced on heroin. Yeah, I'll repeat that: "he drove on heroin." Way to put the whole Barry Bonds thing in perspective for us, Cleatus McDrivesalot. In so many other sports, athletes discretely take drugs to enhance their performance; NASCAR drives apparently just want to get fucked up, and aren't about to let driving a car at speeds over 200 mph get in the way. Kinda puts a new spin on that famous line, "I feel the need - the need for speed." Just imagine the bloodbath if those NASCAR racers had ejector seats.