It's hard to look at CrossFit as anything other than a sweat cult formed from packs of jocks. It's universally considered the go-to activity for dicks, or people too buff to have better hobbies. This perception can drive a person to the point of blind rage. Fuck, it's those vanity batons with their dumbells again, you think.
Selecting a drink is no matter to be taken lightly. The right drink can bring even the most slumping, sauced-up, drunken fuckhead back to life, animating him through another dance, puke-free. Every beverage has its moment, and it’s on you to seize it. When sparring with the fridge contents of a convenience store in an affluent area of Bristol, England, I set out to choose just the right drink.
My dad was not one to wear a towel between the bathroom and bedroom. It seems the daily scenes of his middle-aged schlong bouncing through the house each morning deeply affected me, and any remains of the shame that were guilt-tripped into Adam and Eve were completely ground out. Around the age of 18, I became a kind of sloppy social nudist.
There are few things in life as fulfilling as seeing a new "like" on a Facebook post. You think I'm joking, but deep down, having people "like" the shit we post on Facebook makes us feel all warm and fuzzy. There's actually scientific proof of this: Studies have shown that not only do we experience a release of dopamine when we post something on social media, but an area of the brain called the nucleus accumbens lights up the same way as when we think about fun things like sex and food and money.
At some stage in our development we all shit ourselves. Wastefully, most of you squares fall out of practice when your newborn incontinence privileges are revoked, not taking the craft back up until you're too close to death to truly appreciate it. From the shitty reception my scatological anecdotes tend to receive in polite company, I’ve come to realize that I’ve shit myself more than your average woodland creature.
That may be true: Today's teens are probably jerking amok, reaching second base with their widescreen smart gizmos and fiddling with more leisure and convenience than their forefathers could possibly have comprehended. But I'm a 90s wanker, meaning my generation was jacking off blind through the birth of the internet, which came with its own complications.
What is a dicky tummy and a dry throat, compared to spending brunch picking away at the worth of your own existence? I saw some list detailing the different types of hangover, and thought I’d jack the concept and categorise the various forms of pill induced melancholy, that slap you upside the mental state following a night of blissful squirming and relentless boogying.
With each forced smile and robotic, gritted apology, you will have had the assumption that the majority of humankind are reasonable and nice, steadily ground out of you. You will have been brought to your knees by the systemic bitchiness that stagnates at the core of the ‘modern retail environment’.
Electronic Dance Music (for want of a better term) was once underground. It existed only as a faint bassy memory of a fossilised caveman’s fart’s echo, trapped underneath layer upon layer of sediment somewhere near the earth’s core. Legend has it, no sooner had the first ears to chance upon the sound channelled it into a bewildered 2 step, were they overcome with a rage, unsilenceable and ancient.
I have taken some weed in my time. From the stinking high heavens of Amsterdam, all the way to potentially semen encrusted flecks, mined from beneath grimy laptop keys. Sometime I sit and try to visualise the small mountain range of herbal mass that my lungs have played host to over the years. I think about writhing around in it, hollowing myself out a modest cavern network, then spending the rest of my days striving to satisfy its every emotional and physical need.
Frosty Jack’s is no liquor. It’s a drug. The effects are too uniquely raucous for it to be categorised as straight hooch. The substance (sometimes craftily marketed as Frodge or Fro-J by its advocates) is a man made fossil fuel, an unnatural resource that when consumed, forces its users to enter brave new realms of fucked up.
If you work any of these into conversations on the regular, although it saddens me to have to tell you, all signs point to Cunt City: Population: You. On principle and paper, the word is all that is to be enjoyed about the world, and as painful as it is to brand all its user base cunts, unfortunately there is sweet shit-all to be done.
