It looks like spring might finally be here. There are buds on the trees and migratory bird-shit on the pollen on the snow. Spring means one thing; it’s time to shape up. Even though my abs look like I’m 5 months pregnant and the places where my arm muscles used to be look about as well-defined as sausages, I’m not talking about the traditional pumping of iron.
I need to get some tone where it counts – on my sarcasm muscles. The past 17 months of winter have done wonders for my cynicism, and I’ve got a personal best for reps of bitterness, but my sarcasm is as flabby as Rush Limbaugh’s third neck wattle – that’s right, I said the third one! Any flabbier and Obamacare would cover me for a wattle-ectomy (obviously my irony still has a pulse).
The logical place to turn was the myriad of gyms which sprout up constantly in my area, usually in under-performing strip malls. They promise all sorts of workouts and low introductory rates. Surely one of these sweat shops could help me. I checked in at the one just down the highway which was sandwiched between a vacant supermarket and a space which had a sign in the window promising that a pet grooming business was “Comming Soon“. Clearly the spelling portion of the pet grooming curriculum is not as critical as “Advanced Schnauzer Trimming” or graduate level offerings such as “Persian Cats and the Dingleberry Dilemma.”
I was set up to chat with a personal trainer. He seemed like a nice enough guy and had one hell of a handshake, but I wasn’t sure he was going to be able to help me.
“I need to tone up my sarcasm” I told him. There was no need to beat around the bush, and I wanted to avoid having him start focusing on my absent abs or gelatinous gluts.
He looked a little confused for a second, but then he nodded his head. “Sure!” he said. “I can see that you know your anatomy.” He started going into some discussion about which machines would focus on which muscle groups and after a minute or two, it was clear that he’d confused the sarcasm muscle with the one called the “sartorius”.
I left the gym without signing anything and trudged across the nearly empty parking lot with the added burden of knowing that my sartorius muscles were withered. I tried not to think about how horrific I’d look in a bathing suit, with neither well-defined muscles nor the defense of sarcasm I’d need to deal with the disapproving stares of fellow beach goers.
I tried another gym. Since sarcasm resides in the very center of my being, I foolishly assumed that working on my core strength would address it. After one Pilates session, I realized that I was very much mistaken, and now my tummy hurts when I laugh. Fortunately, nothing is that funny these days. Hot yoga also turned out to be a bust from a sarcasm-building standpoint, but I did discover that after enough limbering up, I am physically capable of kicking myself in the ass.
Having struck out in gyms, I decided to take a break from the quest to rebuild my diminished sarcasm. I turned to my trusted friend the internet. After brief forays into Dutch Toe-porn and checking the Facebook status of that girl who sat behind me in 3rd grade and allegedly ate paste, I surfed over to the news. There were tons of stories from the world of entertainment, sports and politics.
It seems Subway, among others, has long been using an ingredient in their breads which is also found in yoga mats. The company has been so concerned that they are nearly done phasing it out of the recipe. This begs the questions as to whether your sandwich tastes like a yoga mat, or if your yoga mat tastes like a sandwich (or in some cases, both). For the record, toasting ones yoga mat will make hot yoga even hotter.
Stephen Colbert has been attacked via Twitter for upsetting some group. Calls for his firing were attached to a hashtag. He’s been such a target of onslaught that he’s been awarded the single most prestigious job in TV, replacing a retiring David Letterman. There’s rumor of a new Twitter option which essentially says #GoAheadAndGetMeFiredBecauseIveAlreadyGotABetterJobLinedUp.
Back in January, an Ohio man was buried straddling his beloved Harley in a custom plexiglass casket. A team of morticians (and/or taxidermists) labored to insert rods into his back and take the necessary steps to keep him upright on the Electra Glide for all eternity. This is a perfect example of the kind of human interest stories which got buried* due to all the media hype about stray dogs at the Sochi Winter Olympic Games.
* Pun not originally intended, but left in as an attempt at appearing clever.
With each word I read, I can feel the sarcasm rising within me like a crocus shoot breaking through the permafrost. It seems the answer to my problem has been right at my fingertips all along. With my sarcasm back on track to potency, maybe I’ll find the time to work on those saggy sartorius muscles after all.