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OK, here’s something I just didn’t need to see. You don’t want to know about it either, to have the image haunt you as you drift off to sleep, to picture it first thing the next morning when you wake from disturbing dreams.
But you can’t stop, can you? You’re compelled. You keep on reading.
See? Told you so. Anyway I’m taking a shower in the men’s locker room at the gym. An older man is showering across the room. I pay no attention because, in general, I try to pretend naked men don’t exist. Also, because the shower heads protrude from the walls rather than from columns in the center of the room (a design that promotes a bit too much “community” for my delicate Midwestern sensibilities) I spend most of my shower time facing the tile wall, mentally probing nuggets of entertainment and wisdom from the stained grout, for later reporting in this space.
But at one point I spin around to rinse out my hair, to see the other man — stiff movements, tired flesh, liver spots — in a half-squat, bent over with one elbow on his knee for support, peering intently between his legs in the direction of his ass. Which is where one of his fingers has been planted, digging for — oh, I can’t even go on. I mean, cleanliness might be next to Godliness, but this guy’s index finger was next to his colon.
I bring latex gloves and rain boots to the gym now.
You know you live in Granola County when you receive a pamphlet in the mail advertising a weekend event during which the meal choices are
The event itself is something that would probably incite rioting in more conservative parts of the country: a contact improv jam at the regional clothing-optional hot springs.
It’s especially funny that none of the meal options, as picky as they are, include mammal. So, if you have a taste for beef or pork, you have to stay home. But, looking at the bright side, you then wouldn’t have to spend your weekend leaping naked into the arms of complete strangers.
Can you buy happiness for $2.55?
That’s my question for the guy behind me in line at the grocery store. It’s 9:00 AM, and he lays a cold bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and a 40-oz High Life on the conveyor. I wanted to ask, is that breakfast and lunch? Dinner and dessert? Or is one of the bottles for a friend?
But then, you have to wonder, which of the two gets the 40? There’s a quality vs. quantity issue here. Would you rather have 12 oz of good beer, or 40 oz of swill? Assume for the moment that having 40 oz of good beer is not an option. Certainly, in the case of MHL, it isn’t.
The scary part of the episode is that the guy was dressed as if he intended to spend the day operating power tools.
I spotted an endangered species over the weekend, at Costco of all places. A guy in line near me stood about 6'5'' tall, 250 lbs easy, dressed in acidwash jeans and a size-60 XXXL hockey jersey — you know the type, designed to fit over enormous shoulder pads and so on. But this guy filled it. He looked like the sort of person who has to go through doors sideways.
And yet wasn’t his size that caught my eye. It was his haircut: short and wavy on top, long and wiry in back, and squared off below the base of his neck. He had a geniune “Kentucky waterfall,” or like my buddy Andrew says, “Business in the front, party in the back.”
Wait, it gets better. His hair color was dark brown, but on both sides of his head, from the shaved-short temple, over the top of the ear, all the way down each side to the bottom of the mane, the hair was peroxide blonde — striped, in stereo!
I searched the classifications at MulletsGalore.com but was unable find such an amazing, awesome example of what I’ve come to call the Skunk Mullet. I just wish I had grabbed one of the digital cameras off the rack. Of course, had this creature seen me photographing his hair, he’d have flattened me. Or posed… ya never know I guess.
In an attempt to find graphic documentation of a fashion that, by all rights, should have died out 15 years ago, I did a Google search for “striped mullet,” but this turned up something else entirely.
Jeff Zeldman takes on everybody’s least favorite domain registrar… check out the screenshot and then read the merciless (but oh-so-deserved) commentary.
