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Fitter on Twitter

16 Mar

Tim @FitnessTim

Fitness goal for spring: Bench 500. Set it, then get it. #gothedistance #beabeast #fitnessgod

Tim @FitnessTim

Lifted 440 today! Almost there. #superstrong #massivebiceps #massivetriceps #iamhuge

Tim @FitnessTim

Collapsed after 455. #nobigdeal #butitisabigdeal #911 #pleasehelp

Tim @FitnessTim

Fitness goal for today: Have a bowel movement. #hospitalliving #stillhuge #hospitalizedfitnessgod

Tim @FitnessTim

Fitness goal for today: Stand up again. #slightlylesshuge #nursecomehelpme

Tim @FitnessTim

@Nurse Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up! #nojoke #massivemuscles #floorboundmuscleman

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No Child Left Engaged

9 Mar

Around March of every year, innocent school children are subjected to the cruel and unusual punishment that is standardized testing. Unfortunately, the schools that frequently perform the best on these exams have curricula dedicated to preparing their students. Here’s an example of what not to do:

1. Write a concise persuasive letter about whether your school should teach about drug addiction in health class.

Dear Skool Fat Catz,

50 Reasons why School sucks:

1. Homework
2. Classes
3. teachers with a stik up there Butts! Ha!
4. School sucks
5. school sucks
6. school sucks
7. school sucks!
8. school sucks so much
9. school sucks eggs
10. i hate school
11. this school smells
12. my teacher smells
13. it sucks
14-50. Our school’s administrators are so preoccupied with meeting an arbitrary blanket federal standard that they turn the educational focus away from the genuine academic talents and interests of the students in favor of mind-numbingly formulaic standardization.

The school should not be teaching about drugs cuz everyone does them already. Instead the school should spned its $ on tests that arent so dumb. Whoever made this test should be in our school, cuz their clearly on drugs!!!!!!!! Ha! Hypokrit schoolteachers! This school sucks!

I drew a butt on my scantron sheet. Eat my shorts

This school sucks so much.

– Larry “King of Drugs” Johnson

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Yelp Review: Sun ‘n’ Sand Tiki Bar

20 Feb

1/5 Stars

When Sun ‘n’ Sand opened last year, I was excited about having a bar right on the beach in West Palm. I went on my day off on Saturday and this was my experience:

I showed up around 6, and found a seat at the bar. The place had a stale odor, like a combo of low tide and spray tanner. I waited patiently for a waitress, but none came to take my order. I decided to pass the time by making small talk with the other customers; this proved one of the gravest decisions I’ve ever made. I tried to start a conversation with the woman to my left. She proceeded to explain to me how she had purchased a swimsuit that was three sizes too small, but kept it anyway because it showcased her “lovely lady lumps”. I immediately turned away, but she rambled on, explaining how one lump was suspicious and required medical attention. I moved to a different seat when she asked if I had any odd lumps or bumps that she could see.

I stood up to find the manager so I could ask for a beverage, but he was nowhere to be found. I saw what appeared to be the owner singing a Celine Dion medley into a beer can, intermittently shouting that he was the “Karaoke King”. His inebriation became obvious when he attempted to moonwalk and tumbled backwards, smashing his head into a stormdrain. He did not get up immediately, but I did not go to his rescue because I figured his loss might be better for the human race as a whole in the long run. The owner’s drinking buddy, an elderly man in an ill-fitting leprechaun costume (I went to the bar in early February) laughed so hard at his friend’s fall that he spilled his piña colada in his beard. Instead of cleaning himself up, the man climbed on the bar and urged all other patrons to lick the beverage from his facial hair. The only person to take him up on the offer was the owner, who at this point inexplicably rose from his drunken stupor to drink a watery piña colada from his friend’s whiskers. Between the noisy slurps, the owner announced his official change in title from “Karaoke King” to “The Human Beard Vacuum”. At that point, the owner slipped again, marking his second spectacular tumble in under an hour, and resumed his position slumped against the wall.

As I made my way towards the exit, a man who I presumed to be the manager grabbed me by the arm and urged me to have a bite to eat on the house. I imagine the manager was hoping to avoid receiving negative feedback on the internet. Thinking that the bar couldn’t possibly make a worse impression, I reluctantly agreed to try some grub. After a cursory glance at the menu, I settled on the Zesty Tropical Chili. The food arrived thirty-five minutes later, although the time passed quickly to the tune of a surprisingly accurate version of Cats, with lump lady and the leprechaun guy assuming the lead roles. The chili came tepid, and its odorous nature literally made my eyes water. I stirred the contents, where upon I discovered a large mass floating in my soup. I scooped it out, and found it out to be a black du-rag, with the word “spicy” bedazzled on. With so much time already invested in the Sun ‘n’ Sand Tiki Bar, I almost felt it would have all been for nothing had I not even tried the food. Needless to say, I couldn’t actually bring myself to taste an iota of the stuff.

Lacking the heart to tell the manager about the du-rag or any other facet of my experience, so I simply left, never looking back. I immediately set a course for the local clinic, where I had a smattering of medical tests performed to isolate any diseases I may have picked up during my stay, and I encourage all prior customers of the Sun ‘n’ Sand to do the same. In summation, the worst bar I’ve ever seen. It is an embarrassment to the management, the West Palm Beach health department, and the entire state of Florida.

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In Light of Recent Weather, School District to Close Permanently

11 Feb

ALBANY (Lighter Side of the Moon) – In response to the extreme weather impacting our area recently, the Gloversville, NY school district will be canceling school indefinitely. The decision came early this morning after snow-related closings on Friday and Monday.

“It was the logical choice for the safety of our students,” Superintendent Jocelyn Kent wrote in an e-mail to parents. “With so many storms, it didn’t make sense for us to keep kidding ourselves and pretending school was a possibility anymore.”

The ability of faculty members to get to work was a factor in the decision. “Our bus drivers live farther east and we’ve received word that most of them are buried in their homes,” Kent wrote. “According to my sources, it is unlikely they’ll ever get out of their driveways again.”

High school principal Jim Pecora said they’ve made preparations for Gloversville students once the schools shut down. When asked by a member of the press how former students would earn a living without schooling, he said, “We anticipate employing all of our students as shovelers in the emergency response to future storms.”

Parents and students alike are up in arms about this decision. Matilda Patterson, mother of students in eighth and fifth grades, worried about the emotional implications this will have on our children. “My kids get so excited every time they cancel school,” she said. “Even though they close schools every time it rains these days, they still get a kick out of it. I think the monotony of a permanent closing will bore them.”

Mike Rosco, a high school junior, thinks the school’s administrators may have had ulterior motives in making this decision. “I think they just got sick and tired of waking up early to check the weather,” he said. “We haven’t had a full day of school since Hurricane Irene, so it probably just wasn’t worth it for them to keep going through the motions.”

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Iditarod Diary

6 Feb

Every winter, dog-lovers and sled-enthusiasts the world over unite in collective excitement for the world’s longest dog race. Every year, the musher’s roster is an interesting collection of foreign adrenaline junkies, dog lovers who severely overestimate the companionship canines can provide, and Alaskans who think the thousand mile journey is nothing compared to their usual sled trip to the nearest cell tower. Should the unending hours of sunlight not give the musher’s snow blindness, they often keep a journal of their experience. This is the diary of Austrian racer Klaüsus “Klaus” Von Klaüsenberg from his 2012 trek.

DAY 2:

I never saw so much snow. Every direction, as far as the eye can see, there’s more snow. It’s kind of humbling, really. You truly are alone out here. There’s no way to know if you’re going in the right direction. Everything else is just so far away.  I haven’t seen color in two days. It’s just a never-ending sea of white. It’s like that Kenny G concert I went to in Vienna. Anyway, the dogs are barking. I’ll write the next time something eventful happens.

DAY 4

Well, I guess I vastly overestimated how often things happen around here. Today was a blizzard. That’s eventful, I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever been colder. I try to breathe on my hands to warm them up but I think my lungs are frozen. I’d huddle with the dogs, but they’re cold also and feeling bitey. Hold on, my GPS is beeping. I don’t know why it’s beeping. It’s not supposed to beep like that.

DAY 5

It’s been thirteen hours since the GPS stopped working. I have absolutely no way of knowing which to go now, and I have not seen humans in five days. I am unhappy. I fear I may run out of food, so I’ve started rationing. I mark the time between meals in blizzards. I ate a can of peas two blizzards ago. I think one of the dogs smelled it. He’s giving me a scary look. I am very unhappy.

DAY 7

Twelve blizzards since I last saw any kind of a landmark (it was an unusually-shaped mound of snow). I think the mean-looking dog has attracted several others from the pack to his cause. I’m starting to hear words in their barks. Last night, they talked of mutiny. I distinctively heard the phrase, “Let’s drink human’s blood.” I’d kill the dogs preemptively, but then I’d be disqualified from the race. I am scared and very, very unhappy.

DAY 12

I want to go home. The two preceding pages of illegible scribbles are fault of my constant shivering. I couldn’t stay warm long enough to write. All of the dogs are now firmly rooted in confederacy against me. They are stockpiling food and crafting crude weapons out of their leather harnesses. I’d stop feeding them if there were another way for me to travel around this icy hellhole. The boredom is going to kill me before anything else. Just kidding. It will be the cold. I’m very cold.

A rescue party was sent out when Klaus did not arrive at the finish line. He was found ten days later, alone, attempting to eat his backpack. His dogs had run off and abandoned him. After a short recovery period, Klaus changed paths and became an impassioned spokesperson for the benefits and taste of dogmeat. He did not participate in another Iditarod.

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I Want to be a Paperback Typewriter (continued)

30 Jan

Paris is lovely mid-spring (I hear it’s kind of dumpy in autumn). The place was just oozing with inspiration. The narrow roads and lumpy cobblestones made my thighs ripple through my skinny jeans. The general populace glistened perpetually in a resin of lard and butter. Aside from the prostitutes and their syphilis, I could see why Benjamin Franklin came so often.

I had my caffeine passport stamped in all of the city’s most renowned cafes. Though the basic function of the establishments was the same, the difference between a coffee shop in New York and these was remarkable. Here, the coffee was Parisian. The attitude was Parisian. The people spoke Parisian. To the casual observer, it might have appeared as a similar situation as when a Midwestern tourist eats at an Applebee’s in Times Square because it’s much different from theirs back home. But to a connoisseur of places in which you sit around all day and think about writing like me, the difference was palpable.

Amidst the oohing and aahing and gawking, I finally remembered the purpose of my journey and spent some time with my typewriter. As I noisily churned through paper, I noticed that I was not the only writer in my coffee establishment du jour. But, instead of a typewriter, these people used a different device. The keys were recessed into an aluminum body, and the typebars were nowhere to be found. And there was no paper. The letters were struck into a dynamic electronic screen, which could then be adjusted as the user saw fit.

This thing was a miracle! One could write a piece, and make as many hard copies as he wished! He could backspace and move text around and look at funny cats while he worked. A dream come true!

I knew in that instant this newfangled machine would be the inspiration for my next work. So, wrested from the tedium of typewriter-dom and ushered into the space age, I packed up my computer and headed back home.

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I Want to be a Paperback Typewriter

24 Jan

We cleaned out the basement on a Saturday. Amidst platform shoes, an aquamarine Parisian leisure suit, and other relics from days of yore, I found my dad’s old typewriter. I dusted it off and started to write. I found the typewriter to be a very sensuous machine. The pages began to flow, forming a mountain of bleached white as magnificent as the Amazonian tree from whence it came. With each metallic click of the typebars, I was cheered on by the Howler monkeys that were displaced by the slash-and-burn logging that made my paper. I began to feel like a real writer. I saw myself as a knight of the Algonquin Round Table, spending my days hashing out pieces for literary magazines amidst a cloud of cigarette fumes and witty banter. That was the life for me.

With the typewriter came changes. I gave up the typical luxuries of a home  and instead headed for an artist’s house in the city. All great writers must live in an artist’s house to start. Instead of patronizing my usual haunts, such as school or work, I’d go away a while and while away the hours in a coffee house, explaining my latest project to all those with a willing ear, and many without.

“Would you like to order something, sir?” the waiter would say.
“No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to get food or drink on my typewriter, you see,” I’d reply.
“Well, you’ll have to leave, then. You can’t just sit here all day and write without ordering anything,” he’d press on.
“Some tap water then, please,” I’d give in. Baristas do not take kindly to disobedience, I’ve found.

In time, I grew a scraggly salt ‘n’ pepper beard for authenticity’s sake, with some cumin for spice and turmeric for color. The contents of my existing wardrobe were replaced with an unending supply of smoking jackets. I wore tortoise shell horn-rimmed glasses, as all great writers must do. I took my coffee black, and had a pipe with breakfast and scotch with lunch. I spent so much time thinking about what I was eventually going to write, that I became quite a couch potato (like a Yukon Gold but better for boiling). This was the life of a real writer.

However, with all my preparations, I’d forgotten to actually write anything. So, anxious to see if my changes made a difference, I took my typewriter to the park to begin (People are more likely to ask you about your work if you use a typewriter in public).  But when I began, something was weird. Despite my typewriter, smoking jacket, glasses, black coffee, smoke, and scotch, I couldn’t write a single good sentence. And in that instance, I learned the great lesson of the story: there is no item you can buy to make yourself a great writer. It was not the clothing or habits of literary masters that gave them their talent. What I truly lacked was inspiration. And seeing as you can’t buy yourself inspiration, I only had one option.

That day, I packed my bags and flew to Paris, following in the footsteps of Hemingway and Fitzgerald. You can’t gain writing material from possessions; it can only come from expensive trips to foreign locales.

to be continued…

Gertie Tillmann, 89, had many cats

17 Jan

Gertrude Ethyl Tillmann of Boynton Beach, Fa. died on Wednesday, Jan. 16. She was 89. She was the seventh of eleven daughters to the late Edna Plotz and Enrique Tillmann. Ms. Tillmann’s husband, Bert Tillmann, died 14 years ago in a bizarre typewriter accident.

A 1943 graduate of Cornell University, Ms. Tillmann was a stay-at-home mother of three boys. In 1974, Ms. Tillmann forced Bert to move to Boynton Beach because of her debilitating fear of snow.

In her later years, Ms. Tillmann began raising cats in her home to fill her time. “They give me love and affection,” she told Cat Fancy in 2002. “My sons never call, so I talk to the cats.”

Animal Control specialist Tom Peters visited her many times at her home. “She always offered us cake,” he recalled. “Her house smelled like a giant cat.”

Ms. Tillmann was also a frequent patron of the Boynton Beach public library and was very involved in library affairs. She served for 5 years as the president of the “Don’t Get Rid of the Typewriters” club and served for 4 years as president of the “We Refuse to Learn How to Use the Computers” club.

Nancy Rhudy, head librarian since 1986 remembers Gertie’s  consistent presence. “She really was against changing anything about the library,” she said. “When we replaced the card catalog with the digital system, we found her three days later clinging to one in a dumpster for dear life.”

A private service was held today near her eldest son’s home in California.

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Underground Music Review

1 Jan

A-Train Tropik Beatz – 1/1/13 

As ordinary folks dragged their feet to work through a holiday hangover, their New Year’s Day commute was ignited by a musical ambush, courtesy of A-Train Tropik Beatz. Riders of the A train subway have experienced the presence of this all-male percussion trio on-and-off for the last two decades, yet each concert has its own feel and flair. This performance was highly unusual in that it lacked the presence of the band’s groupies, who cruise the subway seeking the roaming band’s good vibes. For this reviewer, there’s nothing quite like the look on the face of a subway bongo virgin being aurally enlightened for the first time.

The band kicked off the show with the feel-good original, “Kingston of Queens”. The easy tempo and off-beat rhythms piqued ears across the car and foreshadowed the mood of the performance. The boys continued with the romantic fan-favorite, “Dreadlock and Key”. The energy and aura surrounding frontman and bongoist Tommy Bahama were downright groovy, and it seemed to everyone on the train as if he were crooning to them directly. Next, the tempo quickened for the Christmas classic, “Coal Runnings”. There was so much spirit, soloist Wiggles St. Nick looked as jolly as his bearded namesake. The mood stayed festive with a fast rendition of “Where the Ganja Grows Like Sugarcane”, a cheerful tune that carried with it the collective hope of a New Year. Unfortunately, the performance was somewhat soured by a disinterested solo by congaist Ricky “The Pipe” Pipers. He stepped out towards the end of the song, but it just seemed like his head wasn’t in the game; perhaps he left it at a New Year’s Eve party the night before. The band lived up to their sterling reputation yesterday with a positively electric holiday show. The group was on the A train, but The Pipe gets at most a C+.

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Christmas Carols for the Doctor’s Office

13 Dec

It’s officially the holiday season, and with that, we can now begin hearing holiday songs everywhere we go. Here are some classic carols specifically tailored for the doctor’s office.

Feldberg, the Nose Job Reindeer (to the tune of Rudolph)

Britney, the teenage narcissist
had a slightly bulbous nose.
So a Feldberg nose job
was the Christmas present she chose.

Her mom lives vicariously through her,
so she didn’t balk at plastic surgery.
“Honey, if we added some silicone,
maybe you could look like me!”

 

Root Canals (to the tune of Jingle Bells)

Going to the dentist,
for your tooth cleaning today.
You know you haven’t been flossing.
What will your hygenist say?

“Have you really been brushing?
Your teeth don’t look so great.
Here take these toothpaste coupons,
our office is sponsored by Colgate!”

Oh, root canals, root canals
You’ll be in pain for days!
You shouldn’t’ve eaten all that fruitcake.
Bring on the Novocain!

Oh, root canals, root canals
You’ll be in pain for days!
You shouldn’t’ve eaten all that fruitcake.
Bring on the Novocain!

 

The Proctologist is Coming to Town (to the tune of Santa Claus is Coming to Town)

Gloves on my wrist, checking you twice.
Gonna make sure your prostate feels nice.
You’re going to feel my finger, deep down.

I know if your prostate’s enlarged,
or generally on the fritz.
You might feel some light pressure,
so I’d appreciate if you didn’t twitch.

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