Oh Baltos, how you woo me with your deliciousness
Artistic label alone you are not
You move me, center me, on a cold day
In the middle of summer
Get off my back
I'm not a poet
Earthy with velvet upon finish
Sure to win you butt sex from the ladies
Two or more bottles of you
Makes for shitty poetry

All seven of you, loyal readers.

I officially put in for a transfer to my future home a few weeks back. Everyone seemed ok with it and I resumed my normal business duties, which include looking fan-fucking-tastic and kicking competitor ass.

Then, a higher up is speaking with a teammate of mine and when I get brought up (Because I always do, you see. I'm like the largest bag of beef jerky in the world's largest beef jerky store. If that makes any sense) and this higher up proceeds to explain to my fellow employee how I won't be able to transfer for at least a year.

It isn't because I'm bad at what I do. Believe me, I'm the Lexington Steele of my industry. Bigger, stronger, blacker.

It happens to be because of some potential restructuring that will be going on within the company. Because of this the timing happens to be about as bad as you could ask for in terms of transfering.

This craptacular luck is right up my alley.

The Detroit Tigers were on a 6 game winning streak when I finally bet on them. They had won something retarded like a hundred zillion games out of a hundred zillion and one.

They, of course, lost.

Now I owe the Drizzle a ten spot and I have to come to terms (yet again) with how shitty my timing and luck is.

For example...

Ah, fuck it. I ain't giving any examples.

You'll just have to trust me. I have shitty luck and timing.

Anyone who has witnessed me gamble can attest to this.

Thankfully I still have the love and support of s particular female to help keep me from going postal and shanking someone.

Thank you, Japanese restaurant waitress lady Elizabeth, for letting me luck out and win the relationship lottery.

I haven't been lucky in a relationship since old man Jackson failed to see me hiding behind the haystacks. Both of his daughters would like to thank you for that as well.

Of course, Bella can't form sentences any longer, on account of the thrashing I gave her, so you'll have to interpret her hand signals and grunts to get the full picture. If she happens to grunt with wide eyes it's because she pooped herself.

Just so you know.

Now that Elizabeth has offended all of our military and relief workers I thought I'd share the Sand Bag Workout with everyone.

Here is the article on Men's Health

It isn't the fact that I need a gimmick to workout.

It's that I need something that fits with what I'm willing to do. In part because I'm lazy, in part because of other things.

I play soccer. I play basketball. Neither of these can be as consistent as I need them to be in order to offset the heavy drinking and shitty eating. I need to add something in there that I can do quickly and easily, without having to head to the gym and wait for machines.

Honestly, I hate people. I don't want to stand around with them waiting for machines or working on something while they stand there with their little fucking towel staring at me and alternating swipes of their brow sweat with gulps of bottled water.

I also hate things that are just straight exercise. lift this weight twelve times, rest, do it again. Run 4 miles. Push-ups, sit-ups, crunches, etc.

I get bored in four seconds.

But give me something more challenging? Or something that's a little different?

Then it's game on.

Yes, I know. It's only a slight variation of pushing weights around, but it's enough.

She complains about my core but then makes fun of my idea to work on it.

I think she wants me to get fat, which would be cool. I love eating whole pizzas and drinking beer. It could be a match made in heaven.

I bet she won't be complaining about my workout routine when I can clean and jerk her with my junk.

Or when I learn Iron Crotch style.

Had a great weekend with the man visiting. I've moved into a new, also temporary place until we make the big move, so he got to see my adorable pad, which is still about 20% from being completely unpacked. The clothes and the shoes...they are a project.

As usual, we ate and drank too much. This is what happens when time together is like a multi-day celebration. It's hard to get into a normal routine when you have to pack in all of the stuff normal couples do over several weekends into a couple of days. This brought us to the discussion of keeping in shape. I'm a yoga girl. I'm fine with only doing that, it keeps me healthy and stops me from slapping people around, with its calming and balancing nature. He, however, has always been a sports guy. Soccer, basketball, whatever. The only thing is, this isn't a convenient or consistent way to work out, since it is heavily dependent upon getting a bunch of other like minded people together to get a game on. Also, it takes up a LOT of time, with the traveling to the place the game is happening, playing, and often, with the end result over some victory or losing beers, which ummm pretty much defeats the physical activity of the whole thing.

The fact is, if he could just find a workout he could do on a daily basis, that only takes a few minutes, he would be more likely to stick to a regular routine and stop complaining about the gaining and losing of the LB's. He really does obsess over it. The problem is, he cries boredom with any such workout, and I guess being bored for 30 minutes a day isn't acceptable. I don't see the big deal. He has a job. That can't be endless excitement all day long, right?

So he tells me he found a great workout. The sand bag workout. Awesome. So he read about some gimmicky nonsense in a men's magazine and now he wants to purchase bags of sand to heave to and fro? Silliest thing ever, right up there with the thigh master. It is, in fact, the men's magazine equivalent of the late night infomercial for the thigh master and all of its similar work out "tools". Only it's a bag of sand, so since it's not formed plastic in a girly purple color, it's totally a manly workout accessory. I'm sure that bag of sand will stave off his workout boredom...for 3 whole minutes.

How did he become so gullible and actually get on board with this idea? He's actually really pumped up about it. Help, people. I see sandbags cluttering the floors of my future home. I'm so not pumped about it. Unlike most clutter that I can just throw away if it gets annoying to me, they are heavy.