oRiOn's Rants and Raves

Well, if you're stumped by the title of this post and its implications, look no further than the name of the blog...Gotcha!

As a matter of fact, I thought I'd do the ol' missus a favour, because it appears that she can't be arsed updating her blog (the last post was more than a month ago) - IMHO, a rather irreverant and disrespectful attitude towards your readership, which has lots of attractive options on the menu as far as the blogosphere is concerned.

So, good lil boy scout that I am, I decided to do 'er a favour and thrash out a post, whilst nursing a serious hangover. Ain't I a dah-lin? Perhaps I'll get rewarded later on tonight - we shall see. Or perhaps spanked? Hm, I might enjoy that too :)

Those of you who know me for my mild-mannered submissions or lovey-dovey eulogies / elegies will probably notice the departure from the aforementioned styles, but hey, I've got it in me to be raving / rantic individual (NOT LUNATIC) every once in a while.

Without further ado, I'll move on to the rant of the day.

Spam mail. Now don't get me started on this one, really don't. Because you might regret it. In fact, you WILL regret it. Therefore, in the public interest, I'll graduate to the runner-up rant of the day - gym memberships (and members).

Now, someone (lets call him LOSER) suggested, or perhaps dropped a rather unsubtle hint the other day, that I should consider joining a gym. I'm all for fitness and all that mambo-jambo (in between beers, mind you) but I'll have none of this bull-crap. Who do they think they are, having the gall to suggest politely that I should join the ranks of losers who sweat it out in airconditioned halls, instead of their bedrooms - how about being a jailbird and breaking stones as an alternative method of physical fitness? Would they consider that or give it some kind of exalted status? Harrumph!

Anyway, but I digress.

Gyms are gay. Yep, you heard it from me, folks and you heard it right.

I’m sorry, but gyms are gay. They are. They are full of muscled-up guys getting pointlessly more muscled-up, sneering at flabby gits in loose “gym clothes” trying to look more toned than the sack of wet vegetables they so closely resemble. Either flabby, or bony-arsed with dripping noses and dandruff. Gyms are horrible, horrible places. You could - *ulp* - run into LOSER in the showers, showing off his 6-inch ruler tat to a bunch of admiring biker-types with mutton-chops.

No, no, no.

The only correct and natural habitat for a Real Man (apart from in front of his own television) is in a bar; preferably at the bar (tables are gay). If you want exercise, lift a glass, or take a bracing hike to the toilet and back.

Of course, I speak as one of nature’s blessed men; one for whom a visit to a gym is not only tastelessly vulgar but almost comically unnecessary. I have the wand-like figure of a lad of some eighteen summers, tuned as taut as a violin string, gleaming and downily smooth … ’scuse me … just going for a wank . BRB.

Told ya, gyms are gay.

Nuff said.

oRiOn