I Deserve A Medley

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Apologies for anyone left high and dry without their daily dosage of the blog for the past day or two. Well, to that one person who asked where they were. The sitcom episode is coming together, but with my brain being used for that at full capacity, it could not cope doing both. However, over the past few days, one might say a medley of stories have occurred. So I’ll now string a few together, starting with the most important.

First random bit of useless info. A while back, I mentioned that one search that someone (or people) used to find the blog was something related to gay rape in a gym, or along those lines. Recently, “Do chicken have teeth?” was somehow, no clue at all as to how, but somehow, used as a search to get to my blogaduu. Pre-tty weird.

On my way to the gym on Friday I tried in vain to think of any possible connection of how this might be linked to the blog. Still didn’t get to figure it out. However, I did get to see a big gang fight happen. And by big gang fight, I mean two big gangs, being tough, talking about fighting, but not actually fighting. Like most fights really. Not like how Jack and Sawyer fought in the last episode of Lost, with the realistic punch effects. This was proper fighting, with little to no punches being thrown. 

While observing this tough gang fight, I noticed the homeless couple I had seen the day before. Once again, they were sitting against a wall, on the side of a street, and, once again, they were at it, hammer style. However, there was a difference this time. When the homeless woman got up and left her spot to get a better view of the fight. I noticed this, but also, that the hammer kept on hammering. By who, I wondered. Ah, thats right, obviously, by the dude. Sitting on the side of the street, with his hammer in his hand, covered, but still, doing a D.I.Y job, on his own. Once again, in the light of evening. Watching the fight, and, seemingly, getting off on it. All feelings of empathy were immediately lost. Like Bonnie, he was not the same without his woman. Now he was just a weird, blue balled, bald, homeless dude.

Unfortunately, he was not the only weird, blue balled, bald dude that I encountered that evening. In the gym, a regular nutter, some old, weird, bald, gay, creepy dude, once again started asking me if I do much work on my legs, could I recommend anything for his legs, or show him some exercises? These chicken things? No. And, no. When he left, probably the only other person younger than 37 in the gym, a quite pleasant looking girl, told me he chats her up as well. We bonded over baldy, blue balled weirdo! Turns out I was wrong too, well kind of. Still, I shouldn’t have presumed. He wasn’t gay. Actually, he was bi, seeing as he told the girl that, while also revealing to her that he likes to wear a wig at times, one similar to her own hair style! A great chat up line if ever I’ve heard one. Ha, funking nut. We bonded well over him. However, once the conversation drifted to any other topic, we lost the connection. Blue balled and bald, or nothing.

Skip forward to tonight (final gym and homeless related story). While walking back from the gym, I noticed a new homeless guy, who was not there on my way to the gym. And the reason I knew this, for a fact, was that he had managed to get a massive kings sized bed set up on the path for himself. It was huge, bigger than any bed I have ever slept in. How he got it there, I have no clue. He asked for a dollar, so I gave him all my money, a few quarters, purely for having that bed. On a footpath. It was highly impressive. When I remarked this to him, he offered me a seat, try it out, lie down man, it is a nice bed. 

Just as I started to bend my knees, and take him up on his offer, I somehow managed to stop myself. I got the feeling if I sat or lay down with him on the bed, I might never get up. The next few years of my life would’ve been mapped out. Lugging that bed around with him, street to street, living the high life. That can wait until I’m retired, work to be done first.

I’ll finish off with the reason, that I think, maybe I should be given a medal. Earlier today, I went to my first rugby match, USA against Ireland. Being patriotic, however, should not be the reason for maybe getting a medal. Can’t beat a day in the sun. Swimming amongst all the factor 60. Or else a nice, dangerously rare – steak wise – looking shade of pink. No, the reason I may deserve a medal, is that I stayed until the end, ha. Sweet Lord. First and last has a nice ring to it really.

Two songs, for all the factor 60 and pink armed fans earlier today… 

Psychic City by Yacht

And, Wild Thing (Remix) by Tone-Loc and Peaches

p.s I think I now have a bit of sun stroke. Should’ve put on some of that factor 60. Clever rugby folk.

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