I went riding in my short shorts—only as a fat, bearded and balding middle-aged man that was not sexy; it's sordid. On that ride in the short shorts I initially went along the pathways presuming that people I'd meet would step off the path six feet for social distance to allow me to speed through. No. That did not happen. Not once. It was as if this COVID shit wasn't happening. I later read an article that said even if you speed through a sneeze cloud it's still going to get on you.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I know what you're thinking; it's Nick Nolte. It's not; it's an actual dinosaur flying a helicopter. A brontosaurus I think. Its co-pilot is a partially decayed green tomato. Unless the tomato is the pilot and the brontosaurus is the co-pilot. That should be a saying; "a brontosaurus is my co-pilot."Though that's only applicable if you're a partially decayed green tomato.That's the sort of high-quality social distance smack you can expect to come from me in this diary of a plague year.
In Community there's an ep where Troy confronts Abed over having his own adventures. It's the same with my tummy.As a short fat man I am the classic apple shape and it's not appealing. One of the aggravating aspects is your gut gets in the way.
Like many Oz kids of the '80s I watched and adored ET: the Extra-Terrestial; I'd have taken a bullet for that little guy. But I call bullshit on the ease of pedaling him about blanket swaddled in the front basket of a pushie.I'd gone on a shop and slotted the spoils in the back box on the bike which instantly tilted like a giant bucket at a water park and dropped my freezer bag of naughty on the ground.
"It" was my composure and it was lost about thee seconds after the lift doors closed on a mission to break from the stress of what I had just done to go get a Diet Coke. I cried all the way from the basement lift, to the vending machine, and all the way back to the lift and managed to stop as I closed in on the office; just red-rimmed swollen eyes to give the game away.I stayed the rest of the day.I'm always amazed when I have an acute existential crisis that can drive me to gibbering tears a
I have a habit of reading emails I have sent and it was then I discovered I'd spelled a word correctly but used it not so; a me instead of my. So the sentence ended with "... call me mobile" which is how a pirate would have ended it. A pirate. I sounded like a fucking pirate. But then, later that day, me mobile did ring and I answers it for a promise of booty to come.So some days are just piratical.Arr.
A lift was being worked on as I waited for the other car to arrive. I'd done something monumentally stressful and my anxiety was high.
It was night and a storm was coming in. I left a gathering early and as I rode with care in the dark I could see crackles of lightning rent the sky.I did not get rained on.But I did bruise my arse bone and couldn't pedal the last bit as each pedal turn rubbed the sore spot across the saddle neck.I'm fat and the bike whilst solid is not designed with me in mind.
It's sorta raining in the nation's capital—a city designed by an American—and I went for a ride on my electric pushie.
It was like exploding candy for head skin.