Whispers

Gyms. Public Gyms. Old man schlongs that dangle in the wind. Do I shy away? Do I stare? Do I compare? Why do those balls hang so low on old men? Why do those old men walk around naked for hours with such pride and glee?

Have you ever been to a men’s locker room in a public gymnasium? Not pretty. And never mind the locker rooms for a moment; have you ever been to a public gym in general? They are a virtual aquarium for assholes, egomaniacs, jocktards, desperate housewives, yuppie scum, mid life crises, showoffs, douchebags, cuntfarts, dipshits, cockknockers, rimjobbers, and inconsiderate little bastards.

If an alien race were to come down to earth and go to the local YMCA in Dumbtown, USA, they would see a fish tankof various, yet similar, smelly humans with their fucking bluetooths and ipod ear nubs shoved into their heads like automatons, douching it up like nobody’s business.

Look Aenolixvork, here’s a yup with her Jane Fonda lookalike costume reading the latest issues of Cosmopolitan while she does the StairMaster. Isn’t she fucking adorable? I bet she thinks she’s a cougar.

The aliens laugh.

Oh! And look over there, Znorlar, that young kid is doing his damnedest to break the Nautilus leg press, because he’s not here to exercise, he’s here to show the world his defiance matters.

And how about that guy, XeXorv, he’s really trying to pretend he’s not intentionally dropping the weights so people will look at him, and how buff he is. His cock must be gigantic, because when you drop barbells, your dick grows 8 inches instantly. At least that’s how he acts.

And what do we have over here, Flurfnog? Oh yes, it’s the ex-jocks from high school still trying to live their glory days even though they work at toy stores and gas stations. My they’re talking loudly. I suppose that’s because they want people to know they’re around, and that deep down, people need to be reminded that it’s THEIR turf. Jockland… learn it, live it, know it forever. Arf!

Macho Macho men, indeed, Quarglarf.

Yes, my friends, we’ve got the Great American Melting Pot of pisshole motherfuckers at your local gym, each a master of his or her craft– the transformation from an everyday citizen into a monstrosity of jackass. I don’t understand it.

Why do they put on a show, like we’re supposed to give a shit about them? Dudes grunting like we’re gonna stop what we’re doing so we can stare and be impressed. Woowwww…. he must be a tough guy. I bet he chews nails and shits flaming meteors. Or the 15 year old girl with the daisy duke sweat shorts that say “Kiss Me” on the ass…. yup, I bet you’re not trying to tell the world you have sex. The moms who chew gum on the treadmill and try their damnedest–almost too hard–not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s to let us know they’re too fucking good for us; that they’ve made it in life and how dare we expect them to acknowledge the mere mortals. And there’s always the “Everybody’s Favorite Gym Pal Mr. Friendly Asshole Guy.” Gotta love him. I know when I’m trying to work out, nothing pleases me more than hearing about his trip to the Auto Zone that morning, or his recount of last year’s high school wrestling match. I really need to hear about his new fertilizer, and his garden gnomes, and his PT Cruiser’s new pinstripes. I go to the gym WANTING to hear an old war story while I’m doing sit-ups. No, you know what? SHUT THE FUCK UP!! OK???!!! Get away from me, pally. I need to concentrate, not socialize. Go to the fucking park and ass-rape some pigeons while you relay your boring tales of mediocrity to THEM, Grampa!

And so we come full circle, to the locker room, where that “Buddy” guy has to mix politics while his hairy sack swings like a pendulum, one leg propped up on the bench. Yeah, please tell me more about Obama’s new policies while we act as if we’re somehow free and liberated of the unnatural confining prison that is clothing, here in our man-lair, where sweaty asscracks and neoconservatism go together hand-in-hand. Why, they’re like two glistening testies inside a nice, stretched out scrotum. Why? Why, old man, do you walk around with your shriveled legs and white ass and wrinkly love handles and that snuffaluffagus hanging betwixt yon crotchery? Let my eyes rest not on your man-trunk, but upon a poster of Farah Fawcett. You know the one, that super fucking hot one… Yeah, that’s it. Because if I have to see one more group of old clucks talking about baseball in their invisible pajamas, I might just fucking stab my eyes out with a salad fork.

May the Hed be with you, and not staring at ye from an 80 year old marble pouch.

I’m sure I am like many of you, and share a love/hate relationship with that fucking shithole we call Wal-Mart. I love it much like I love America: for what it once was, what it’s SUPPOSED to stand for, and the very foundation of genuine public friendliness upon which it was built. But, much like our nation, it has become corrupted with the vile seeds of board room suits, schmucks on Wall Street, and perhaps worst of all, the consumer.

In reference to the latter, I am not speaking about you and I, the wary pedestrians, but the fucktarded, fat-assed, Neolithic, Cro-magnon dipshits who wander that cestpool of fatal bargains aimlessly, forever trapped in the slimey grip of their own device. These are the would-be citizens who have succumbed to the power of the cheap. Those who have fallen ill to the air born disease of brainrot-itis which floats about the aisles and slithers in between the shelves. Oh yes, they shop, and they check out, and they load their cars like normal people. They even eat like the rest of us. Oh my, do they eat… (A healthy diet of Bavarian Pretzels, which happens to be right near Customer Service, so they can return that impulse purchase of 2 dozen Hannah Montana posters and get something to eatstuff their melons with at the same time.)

Yet, beneath their ruse of normalcy, there lay a poisoned animal which was once a human being. For they are not denizens of suburban homes, nor be they folk of green-grassed neighborhoods. No, my friends. They are the cockroaches which scatter in the light. They are the ants on a melting candy bar. They are the flies on a forgotten plate of potato salad. I consider them pests; vermin, for, if you pay close attention, they will place their baskets full of shitty jeans, two dollar cases of soda, and clever redneck T-shirts with adorable slogans like, “Born a Ramblin’ Man,” or, “I came here to fish and chew bubble gum. Looks like I’m all outta bubble gum,” in their back seats, as any normal family would. But rather than start up the Dodge and take the kids to Apperbees for wings n’ poppers, they go right back into Wal-Mart.

I know this, not because I have seen it, but because deductive logic dictates that there can’t possibly be that many different flabby, toothless, gutter-mouthed moms and dads in every town, with screaming brat kids who need five copies of Spy Kids 2, can there?

Has it come to this, folks? Do we now live in a world where we’ve become a parody of ourselves? Are we really that pathetic? I have to say no. I have to.

If I were a betting man, I’d wager that if you took the time, and fired up one of those twenty-two dollar on sale digital recorders  from the trusty electronics department and filmed the parking lot of your local Wal-Mart around 1:00 in the afternoon, and then again at, say, 11:38 that same evening, you’d find that many of the same cars fill that parking lot.

Think about it. This MUST be the case. Go to a Wal-Mart at lunch time. Then go home, live your life, take a nap, masturbate, do whatever it is you do, and then come back at, say, 3:27 in the A.M. Is there a difference? No, my friends, there is not. The place will be just as packed on Christmas Eve during rush hour as it will on an early Wednesday morning in June. This is because the people who shop there are brainwashed slobs who never leave.

Yes, the same fucking idiots who stop in the middle of the aisle to discuss whether or not to check the shoe department or sporting goods next, with their wide loads of cellulite-coated rumps and Winnebago-sized shopping carts and snot-faced children; they’ll just stand there oblivious to the world, blocking you from just getting whatever it is you want so you can leave. These are the same fucking assholes who stand in line for half an hour (because there are only two cashiers present at any given time–store policy), only to get to the cashier and THEN start writing their checks. Or they’ll pull out a debit card they KNOW damn well is overdrawn, try to use it, and then act dumbfounded when it won’t clear, only to dig through their 50-cent purses that could house a small rocket for another cash card. These are the same shitbags who hover near the bargain movie bins like it’s a fucking birdbath.

These poor souls have been turned into automatons by the evil machination of their own pathetic greed. Their insatiable lust for crappy shoes, censored CD’s, polyester slacks, half-priced toasters, bulk quantities of potato chips, cheesey photos of their brats, socks that don’t make it through a day’s use without a hole in the heel, 300 foot orange extension chords, fake indoor trees, purple steering wheel covers, camouflage winter gloves, thirteen dollar mountain bikes, unicorn puzzles, and toys from 1984 has transformed them from productive members of society into mouth-breathing undead.

So beware, people. Stay the course of Hedlightenment. Do not give in to their 15 cent Agatha Christie paperbacks. Do not waver when you pass the 23 lb. bag of cheese curls for a buck. Let not your wallet cry to be opened like a blooming flower when you see “Buy 4, Get 8 Free!” air-fresheners. Smile not at the 42 year old man stocking toys, or the 16 year old kid training him. Do not heed the 108 year old woman greeting you, kindly reminding you of where you are when you enter their lair. For if you are not already well aware you’re in Wal-Mart, and not any place else in this world, you may have already become one of the wasteful zombie residents of Hell on Earth.

Take care, my friends, and may the Hed be with you.