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Guest Post: The Hirsute Naked Man In The Gym Locker Room Discusses the Hashtag Nude Lives Matter Movement

September 9, 2015 2 comments

Well, I’ve been in somewhat of a blogging drought lately, so I’m going to give sole control of today’s post to some hairy naked guy I met in the gym locker room. I made a deal with him: if he put on his damn underwear, he could write a guest post for my blog. Everyone wins: content is generated for you, the reader, and the pasty undulations in my immediate quadrant are veiled, if only for one night. So here is the first ever guest post on this blog, from The Hirsute Naked Man In The Gym Locker Room.

Hello, blog! NUDITY!!! OLD, NAKED MEN!!!!! HAIRY BACKS!!!!!! SCROTUMS SWAYING GENTLY IN THE GALE PRODUCED BY THE GLORIOUS POWER OF AN XLERATOR-BRAND HAND DRYER!!!!

I apologize. I was using the attention-grabbing tactic of beginning a manifesto with a series of edgy words. So don’t worry, it was all for show.

And now that I’ve got your attention, let’s talk about public male nudity in men over the age of 70. This is a demographic that has been pushed to the fringes of society, marginalized, insulted, and universally regarded as an outdated herd of soured, pickled meatbeasts with nothing important to say.

Well I importantly say this: public nudity serves many purposes in this crazy rat race we call life, which is sort of ironic, because if life really were a rat race, we would all be naked, like rats are all the time. You know what I’m talkin’ about, how they just crazily scramble around and pile up on top of one another, having hours and hours of naked rat fun.

When was the last time you saw a good old-fashioned fleshy pile of humanity, writhing around and whoopin’ it up, just like rats do every day? Time was, we called it Saturday Night. Now? Sheesh, I call it a win if I catch the vague outline of a man’s penis through his fancy dress pants.

Which brings us to the tale of how I landed this gig as a guest blogger. ‘Twas a Monday night. Or was it a Wednesday? Time and space bend in odd ways when you bask in the illumination of nudity, you must understand. Anyways, due to a remodeling job, the local gym has been rather empty lately. So, after patrolling the locker room for a few hours—nude, obviously—I realized I hadn’t seen anyone for a very long time, so I was about to call it a night and take my third steamy shower in the provided facilities when in walks some clothed gentleman.

Excellent, I think to myself, this room could use a fresh pair of bare buttocks. I lurked around the corner, waiting for him to derobe. I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when all the guy does is change from his regular short pants into his gym shorts. And to make matters more ridiculous, he was wearing some sort of garment under his shorts that covered his genitals while he made the switch!

My world was shook—left became right, up became down, all-out bare-assed glory became heavy winter-layering.

So I strut over there, throw my foot up on the bench, and lean my elbow on my knee, a position that is the absolute last word in nude comfort, plus it gives your hammy a bonus mini-stretch, and makes the upper parts of your lower body more readily available to receive any breeze that my happen to be blowing through. And I say to the guy, I say, “What better place than here, what better time than now, is there to be nude?”

He says something not pertaining to nudity, so I press on: “Nice locker room, right. Got showers and everything. Real nice showers,” the implication here being that showers require one to be naked.

Again, his retort has absolutely nothing to do with the action of being completely devoid of clothing, and then he mentions something about a computer blog. Who is this guy? For realsies?!

So, having accurately pegged this guy as a ‘clother,’ I try to coax him out of his shell by explaining to him my method of getting dressed, even though this event is very stressful to me.

I won’t bore you with the details, but when I finally do get dressed, pants are the absolute last thing to go on. Even after the shoes. You’re probably asking yourself, ‘Doesn’t this cause him to wobble, teeter, and stumble around as he struggles to pull his pants over his shoes, grabbing on to whoever is near for support while his anus is exposed and his genitals swing free?’

The answer to that question varies. Sure, there have been times when I lost my balance and tumbled into an unsuspecting locker room patron. Whether or not any of my private parts brushed against that person is up for debate.

On the other end, there have been plenty of occurrences when I successfully pulled my pants on over my shoes, free of any incidental contact with standers-by. In the end, it all cancels out.

Anyways, all this talk of dress has gotten me off track. I, along with my fellow free-hanging septuagenarian brethren, have been hearing a lot about all sorts of lives mattering, with no mention whatsoever about nude lives. Where do we fit in to the mix, huh? Where’s all the coverage of police ruthlessly gunning down an innocent nude man? I haven’t seen any. Did you know that many businesses will flat out refuse to hire a naked applicant that fits all qualifications for an open position? How about the act of segregating us beautiful, naked, hairy nudes into a small locker room?

Hashtag nude lives matter, man.

So, where do nude, old, hairy men stand in today’s society? In America’s gym locker rooms, is where we stand, and soon we shall burst forth from these prisons, walking very slowly, carrying towels but not using them to cover anything up, and coughing every fifteen seconds.

The world will know us.

Hashtag Blog.

-love, the hairy naked man from the gym locker room

A New Workout Craze

Latest moneymaking scheme:

Create an infomercial, to be aired late at night. The product: a workout system for alcoholics.

The alcoholics then order the system while they are schnockered, with no recollection of having done so. The purchase will be reflected on their bank statements as ‘Alcohol Store.’

Eight to ten business days later: the alcoholic receives a package in the mail, informing them they have won a free prize—a hot, chiseled body.

The alcoholic, in its drunken state, will be horny, and want to possess a hot, chiseled body, so that it will attract people that like hot, chiseled bodies.

The package contains several videos, none of which name my company.

The first video instructs the alcoholic to hit pause, and get black-out drunk, then proceed with the program—a ploy that will work perfectly, because alcoholics, by their very nature, love to get black-out-drunk.

Once the alcoholic is black-out drunk, the video descends into a parade of nothing, basically—footage of cats playing with yarn, black and white photos of weddings that occurred in the 1930s, spliced with actual workout scenes, in the event that the alcoholic experiences a moment of coherence.

The VHS tapes will be engineered to unspool after 30 minutes of viewing. The DVDs also have a built-in destruction mechanism: they look like coasters. After repeated poundings from Steel Reserve tall boys, those discs will be useless within the week. The tapes and discs are thrown away and soon forgotten.

Since they are under the impression that the videos were a free prize, and the only record of any purchases are attributed to the ‘Alcohol Store,’ as the infomercials continue to air, money continues to flow down from the alcoholic to me, in a textbook case of the trickle-down economy in action. And it’s good for the alcoholic: the more times they purchase my system, the less money they will have to abuse alcohol.

P90X—Good For The Body, Bad For The Psyche

Oh no.

P90X, the massively popular fitness system engineered by Tony Horton, is a great workout—you can do it in the privacy of your home, and it only takes up about an hour of your day. The program does, however, have a repetitive nature. After three rounds through each workout video, unbeknownst to the viewer, disturbing apparitions have already seeped deep into the back doors and forgotten corners of the brain, combining to form a horrific dreamscape, culminating in violent sexual nightmares about Tony Horton. Seriously. It happened to this guy I know.

It starts out mild—basic dreams of Tony in front of you grunting, sweating, proclaiming “I like these pushup handles because they let you go extra deep.” So I’m told. It never happened to me. It happened to my friend.

Innocent enough. Then, the dream repeats, exactly the same, only Horton is now behind you, out of sight. No matter how much you spin, he is forever at your backside. A one-eighty that the man who told me all this wouldn’t wish on his greatest foe. He pulled me aside and made it totally clear that he, my friend, would wish to endure Dante’s Hell rather than a psychoid-level bout with Tony Horton’s dreambeast.

Then, around week six of the program, I’m led to believe you’re right in the middle of a deep plyometric burn, totally awake, and the lights dim—it’s a daydream, or the power went out, maybe someone slipped LSD into your recovery drink—no one knows, and T-Hort is rootin’ around in your underwear, and you return the favor, according to my friend. Pretty gross. You’re both looking each other in the eyeball, bottom-scooping the contents of each other’s drawers. So I was told in such graphic detail it’s almost as if I experienced these night terrors myself.

What I wanted to relay to all of you, through the cautionary tales of my friend, is that P90X will sculpt your body, I suppose. And oh, yeah, it will also carve a deep fissure into a part of your brain you maybe didn’t even know existed, and create channels leading to a 36-chambered Shaolin temple-like complex, where one must perform hallucinogenic battles with fitness icons from Jack LaLanne to Richard Simmons, inevitably ending in the insanity of the dreamer.

But it’s all about looking hot on the outside, so don’t worry about your brain.

 

Real Talk At The Gymnasium

For some time now, I have been involved in an ongoing gonzo investigation of the fitness community. In order to fully grok this culture, attending the gymnasium has been a very real part of my life. Until now, I hadn’t been able to put into words what this society was all about, when someone went and did it for me — during a recent session, I overheard the following conversation. What you are about to read fully encapsulates a strange breed festooned with tribal tattoos, rage issues, and arid husks of what used to be testicles.

Man, borderline yelling, to his brother:

“YEAH, SORRY I WAS LATE BRO. I GOT HALFWAY HERE, THEN I WAS TRYING TO LOOK AT MY BICEPS WHILE I WAS SITTING AT A STOPLIGHT, AND NOTICED THAT MY SHIRT STILL HAD SLEEVES ON IT. SO I TURNED AROUND TO GO HOME SO I COULD CUT THEM OFF. I WALKED BY MY MIRROR AND SAW THAT MY HAIR COULD USE SOME MORE GEL, SO YOU KNOW, THERE’S TEN MINUTES RIGHT THERE. THEN, JUST TO BE SAFE, I SPRAYED ON ANOTHER COAT OF AXE WHILE SINGING ALONG TO SOME NICKELBACK TO WARM UP MY VOCAL CORDS FOR ALL THE SCREAMING I’M GOING TO DO DURING MY CURLS. HEY, COULD YOU HOLD ON A SEC, BRO? I GOTTA MAKE A PHONE CALL. (dials and begins talking) “HEY BRO, WHAT UP MAN, I’M AT THE GYM, CAN’T TALK, ABOUT TO GET MY CURL ON, CAN I CALL YOU LATER? WE’LL HIT UP HAPPY HOUR AND SLAM SOME MICHELOB ULTRAS. TIGHT. PEACE.” ANYWAYS, BRO, WHAT WAS I SAYING? HEY, WHO’S THAT IN THE CORNER WATCHING US? WHAT A HOMO. ANYWAYS, BRO, FEEL MY PECS. GETTING PRETTY BIG, RIGHT? CHICKS LOVE THAT. SPEAKING OF CHICKS, YOU SEE THAT LITTLE SQUISH OVER THERE? THAT’S MY GIRL, BRO. CHECK OUT THE DUMPER ON HER. NICE, RIGHT? HEY, BRO, QUIT LOOKING AT MY GIRL’S ASS, BRO! DIDN’T I JUST TELL YOU THAT WAS MY GIRL? DAMN, BRO, IF YOU EVER TOOK MY ADVICE YOU’D DOUBLE YOUR CREATINE INTAKE AND GET CUT UP LIKE ME AND MAYBE YOU’D HAVE YOUR OWN GIRL INSTEAD OF PEEPIN’ MINE ALL THE TIME. IT’S SICK BRO, I’M GETTIN’ MORE TRIM THAN A BARBERSHOP FLOOR OVER HERE. YO, BRO, BEFORE WE START THIS SET LET’S FLEX IN FRONT OF THIS MIRROR. UGGGHHH!!!! WHAT’S THAT BRO? I HAVEN’T HEARD A THING YOU’VE SAID. I’D TAKE MY EARBUDS OUT, BUT THIS NEW PITBULL ALBUM IS TOO DOPE.”

The conversation went on for some time after that, but there wasn’t much to be learned from it. Conclusion — I immersed myself in the culture, and emerged on the other side with my gonads the same size as when I began, which is not something every blue-blooded gym patron can say.

 

 

 

I Need To Stop Working Out So Much

Yesterday I was going to grab my ice scraper from the back seat of Mildred (the “stunning silver” Altima). Pulled on the handle, and that sucker ripped right off. Wasn’t even trying that hard either.

Kegels for Men

Running and Z90x aren’t all fun and games (read about those here and here). At some point in this frenzy of activity, I have developed a hip ailment. In a quest to find out how this could have happened, I consulted my sister, who also happens to be a master misogynist, that is, massage therapist. After I gave her a brief rundown of what I have been up to, she provided me with a diagnosis. I tend to drift in and out of attention when people are talking, but here is what I took from the talk:

It all begins with the biggest muscle in the hip, the tessimal flaximus, more commonly known as the hippochondriatic flexor. That of course connects everything below the hip to the upper trunk of the body’s core. The interplay betwixt these anatomical dancers is an intricate tango that is meant for two. Metaphorically speaking, if you were to introduce an obnoxious, drunk guy in a leisure suit (in this case the jarring impact of jogging) who trys to join in the fun, that makes three, and any semblance of cooperation can be kissed goodbye. A fistfight may even ensue. According to my sister, the bounce of running has created a rift between my flaximus and upper core, originating from the lack of strength and support from my gluteal muscles. So, to put it in layman’s terms, my a** isn’t pulling its weight around here.

It was suggested that the gluteus maximus be strengthened. It brought this to mind:

I began to think of ways to strengthen my back end. And, lo and behold, the answer was right in front of my face. I have been reading the book I Am America (And So Can You) by Stephen Colbert, and coincidentally just finished the section where he discusses the concept of Kegels. If you’re not familiar with this, it’s an exercise named after Dr. Arnold Kegel that the ladyfolk use to work their, ahem, more delicate parts. I’m just going to assume that this can be applied to my buttocks. A few minutes a couple times a day, and my bottom will soon bring to mind a fresh, firm Georgia peach. I’ll be Kegelin’ with the best of ’em. Matter of fact, as I type this, I already am.

Barefoot Running

I’ve been trying this fad called barefoot running. It’s where you run in your bare feet. People have been doing it for thousands of years. I usually just pop off the ol’ sneaks and run in the grass next to the sidewalk on the last leg of an invigorating jaunt through my ‘hood. You may be asking yourself what I do with my shoes. It’s easy, stupid (or stupid easy) – wear them on your hands. Other questions also may arise from you, the reader. Do people stare? Is this safe? Are there health concerns? Of course, my feathered friend, of course. I will take this moment to cover the basics:

-Do I look like an idiot running with shoes on my hands?

Yes. But so does the 50-year old gawker driving past in his bright red Sebring convertible to his son’s interpretive dance class.

-Will my feet get cut up by rocks or debris that people throw out of their car windows?

I would assume that will happen at some point. But they won’t ever be cut as bad as the ego of the guy in the Sebring who has to pick up his kid from interpretive dance class.

-After my feet inevitably get cut, will I step on a used condom that some high-schooler threw out of their car and contract an STD?

I don’t see why not. But the burn I feel will never be as bad as the burn Sebring guy feels when he looks in the mirror and wonders how he let his kid take interpretive dance classes.

-Does it make me feel wild and free and more in tune with the earth and closer to our primitive human ancestors?

No. It’s just this thing I’m trying out for a while because I won’t be able to do it when it gets cold. But when it does get cold, the guy driving the Sebring will be still be doing that – just driving that Sebring. I will have moved on to other ventures. And also, interpretive dance class goes year-round, so he gets to spend the foreseeable future watching bedazzled children voicing their inner anguish through the majesty of dance.

And that is everything you need to know about barefoot running.

Blong (Blog song). Peverelist – Roll With the Punches.

Z90x

We’ve all heard of this craze that is P90x. What a pile of horse feathers. Muscle confusion? What is that? If I’m not mistaken, muscles are just meat. Meat can’t get confused. Have you ever gone to an upscale chophouse and ordered a grade-A, “well-confused” steak, because you thought it would taste better than the less-bewildered cuts of meat?

Muscle confusion. Pssshh. The next thing you know, my small intestine is going to start having “feelings,” and I won’t be able to enjoy the edgy comedy of Eddie Murphy lest I offend my digestive system.

I’m much more partial to the Z90x. It goes a little something like this:

I just do whatever I want. It’s like the honey badger.

The Z90x is pretty badass.

Take this morning for instance. I did what I like to call “Ab-Blast,” which is exactly what it sounds like. I blasted the abs. Just whaled on ’em. Absolutely went to town on those bad boys. Did I plan this in advance? Please believe me when I say that I did not. Go with the flow baby, go with the flow. Tomorrow, I’ll probably be sore from that, so I’ll get up, and I’ll be like, “abs are sore, should probably do something else.” So then I’ll go run for a while. How far? I don’t know, I’ll keep going ’til I get tired and want to go home and eat, which leads to another hallmark of Z90X. Diet. This isn’t one of those “hey man, don’t eat fat, eggs are bad, lay off the cheese” diets. The more the better I always say. But, for legal reasons, I should probably tell you to consult your doctor first. That being said, I didn’t. I don’t even have a doctor. The entire philosophy of Z90x is this: I like to eat, but I don’t want to get fat. I like to eat a lot of food that isn’t healthy. I also like a lot of food that is healthy. So why not marry the two? Go ahead, go on a six mile run, and reward yourself with a cheese pizza, but maybe put an ass-load of broccoli on it. Do these two cancel each other out? I don’t know, who do I look like, acclaimed celebrity trainer Jillian Michaels? Oh yeah, you can’t see me. Well I don’t look like her, trust me. Or if that doesn’t suit your style, go ahead and make some pasta. Go ahead, boil it up. Smother it in alfredo sauce, I won’t be mad. After you’ve done that, chop up some mushrooms and spinach, and throw them into the mix. Oh yeah, that’s the stuff. This is how Z90x conducts business.

Blong (Blog Song). Link Wray – Rumble.

 

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