Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Dr. Oz writing room. No—to be a person on a chair in that writing room.
To make the cut on the Dr. Oz show, you’ve got to know a thing. The thing being, of course, redundancy. When you send the esteemed Dr. Mehmet Oz out into that standing-room-only-lioness-den-and-also-television-studio packed to the brim with bored, middle-aged women, he better be stuffed up to his beady little eyes with tips on how to lose weight.
If not, upon you will the harem of Oz feast.
So, if anyone from the Dr. Oz camp happens to be reading this, I went ahead and drafted a spec script:
Dr. Oz, returning from commercial: “Welcome back ladies, yes, I am a real doctor.” He pauses here to allow swooning. “Now, let’s get right to it: who wants to lose weight?”
Audience: “MEEEEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”
Oz: “Okay then. I’ve got a secret to share, something no other doctor will ever tell you. Quick survey: how many of you eat a cheeseburger and French fries every day? Show of hands.”
Everyone raises their hand.
Oz: “Did any of you know that a diet like that is actually bad for you?”
Everyone looks around in disbelief.
Oz: “It’s true, it’s true. What if I told you that, instead of eating a cheeseburger and fries every day, you will lose weight if you eat broccoli and rice instead?”
The audience collectively bows down to The Oz: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”
Dr. Oz: “And here’s a bonus tip—it’s also healthier to drink water instead of soda!”
Everyone is now spasming and speaking in tongues.
Dr. Oz: “And one more thing before we go: if you exercise instead of sitting on your couch, your metabolism will speed up!”
Something like scales fall from upon every eye in the audience. A massive rebirth has taken place. They all go forth into the world, ready to turn their lives around. However, in the time between the end of the show and the next morning, all of these brutal truths are washed away by one last binge, followed by the intoxicating coma that comes after eating a box of Cosmic Brownies….
Tomorrow, Dr. Oz replaces cheeseburger with hot dog. Broccoli becomes spinach. Water is now decaffeinated green tea. No one notices.
The unstoppable Oz cash cow continues to feast upon itself.
There are perks to being a blogger. We have this unique platform that enables us to let our voices be heard, and sometimes a guy in suit from something called Big Medicine approaches you with a sack covered in dollar signs saying that he’d like you to talk about the greatest drug for high blood pressure ever created, and you tell him you’ll never sell out, and then he shows you that there’s actually money in the sack, so you say you’ll take the offer.
Even though that happened, it had no influence over my decision to talk to you today about Fluvalipitorbrate™, the best boner medicine to hit the market in years.
You see, sometimes in order to lower your cholesterol, or whatever this stuff does, you need to make sacrifices, like only having one functioning kidney. You have two for a reason, so it’s not much of a sacrifice anyways. And—this is according to Big Medicine—comas brought on by Fluvalipitorbrate™ are actually healthy, because it gives your body a chance to rest and recover from the ulcers and painful full-body burning sensations that led to the coma in the first place. Plus, you won’t be conscious for the bloody diarrhea. Sounds like Fluvalipitorbrate™ is doing you a solid there.
When you come out of the coma, which 65% of people do, you’re going to have some suicidal thoughts. But that’s only because you’re mad at yourself for not taking Fluvalipitorbrate™ years ago, when it was still causing men to grow massive breasts. You’ll cheer up when they give you a jar full of your teeth and then find that all the hair on your body has fallen off, which will help you swim very fast, once your muscles grow back.
Then you’re on the home stretch to a major testosterone boost, which is what this drug is all about. After you fight off the minor bouts with bi-polar disorder, diabetes, necrotizing fasciitis, and halitosis, you can tell all your friends (through sign language, if you still have lockjaw) about Fluvalipitorbrate™ and how it changed your life.
For more info, ads for Fluvalipitorbrate™ can be found in Men’s Health magazine, or on our infomercial that airs from 3-4 every Thursday morning (it’s the one with happy men golfing and a voiceover talking extremely fast about internal bleeding and bones turning to dust).
Did you know that rabbits cannot vomit due to their very muscular cardiac sphincters? Now you do. The same goes for chinchillas, and rodents in general. Horses also have the same thing going on.
This has been Educational Wednesday.
Guest Post: The Hirsute Naked Man In The Gym Locker Room Discusses the Hashtag Nude Lives Matter Movement
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.
-love, the hairy naked man from the gym locker room
Ten Things Only People Who Had A Wart On The Side Of Their Left Foot In The Early ’00s Will Understand
1. Mac’n’cheese is the best. Because of what you have lived through, no one will ever understand this quite the way you do!
2. Bacon. Right? LOL!
3. You like the word ‘awesomesauce,’ you call anything without gluten ‘G-free,’ and you greet people by saying ‘Wasabi, kemosabe?’ If you agree with any of the previous sentence, you did not really have a wart on the side of your left foot in the early ’00s. You fell into a trap laid by the superior intellect only a person that had a wart on the left side of their foot in the early ’00s could possess.
4. You have a friend that tried to get a wart just like yours, but during his quest, he ended up getting his foot chomped off by an alligator. And then his entire leg. Followed by his midsection, heart, and head. You watched the entire thing happen, but didn’t do anything, because, well, wart.
5. You enjoy reading lists about warts and wart-related issues.
6. You have taken an online quiz about what city you should really live in, but still live in the city you’ve always lived in.
7. You become irritated when people post lists about having a wart on the bottom of their right foot in the ’90s. Or worse yet, the army of aged husks from the ’60s that yap on and on about how great sac warts were back then. You won’t hear it. These people all suck, because they have not experienced what you have. Having a wart on the side of your left foot in the early ’00s was the quintessential wart-having experience, and anyone that says otherwise has warts that are dumb, and also very, very stupid.
8. You have purchased anti-wart cream.
9. You have shamed, belittled, and badgered anyone who doesn’t believe warts are beautiful, because, after having a wart on your left foot, YOUR opinion is the correct one, and if someone doesn’t share your perception of beauty, they are a body-shaming bully.
10. Overweight people with warts are disgusting.
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.
I just went through plasmapheresis. Somebody owes me big time. I technically own another human’s life force now. Big responsibility there. The only trouble is, with all the bureaucratic buffoonery and red tape down at the donation center, they won’t even let you behind the counter to see where something that used to be in your body is going to be shipped, let alone who they’re going to put it into.
Is anybody reading this a detective? I want to hunt down whoever has my plasma. But not in a mean way. All I want is a sincere thanks, and for them to buy me a sandwich every week for the rest of their life. Pretty reasonable, because I know I could demand much more than that.
I could have people, pumped up to their eyelids with my plasma, washing my car, fetching my groceries, naming their children after me. Children that have a piece of me in their veins. But I don’t think of stuff like that.
I am however, in the preliminary stages of having my testicles, kidneys, liver, and even unused parts of my brain tested. In the world of medicine, sick people are so grateful to receive these body parts that donating them guarantees you a rent free existence on Easy Street at least until you are old, and then I think the government pays for you to stay alive after that.