So a couple years ago, my hair just up and quit on me. In my younger days I had a wild mane that was similar to Seinfeld’s Kramer.
It was preposterous, but at least it was a look dammit… it was something! Now my hair is a shell of its former self. It’s like some sort of Greek ruins where gravelly remains peek up from the dirt. I’m the tour guide assuring anyone who will listen that it was once the site of mighty aqueduct. Sad.
So when I see celebrities (hell, even friends) who still have all their follicles in tact, flourishing to levels of beauty unobtainable by me in my current state, I whisper to myself “I would _________ for lettuce like that.”
Such is the case with grey-ing lion George Clooney. Talk about having it all. George is an all time legendary Hollywood cocksman. He’s trekked the globe alongside super models and starlets. He makes more money doing a 30-second Nespresso ad than I will make in a lifetime. Not only that, but this is what his luscious locks look at age 55:
Would I drown a bag of kittens with my own hands to have his hair? No. Obviously not. I’m not some horrible monster.
Would I press a button that I knew led to a bag of kittens being lowered into some sort of kitten drowning device that would simultaneously give me George Clooney’s marvelous hair? You must think me an ogre if you believe I would.
But what about if these were elderly cats?…. Say animal shelter cats which were scheduled for termination anyway?
….. (thinking)….
Obviously, as with everything, the devil is in the details.
One of my favorite comedy bits is Louis CK discussing turning 40. It’s sadly 100% accurate. Spot on. It’s brilliant, funny, and depressing all at the same time. I am planning on updating this blog with the various parts of my shitty body breaking down on me, but for now we’ll just concentrate on my elbow and how it is making me confront some preconceived notions I have… (a.k.a. racism?)
About two months ago I arm wrestled a woman in a bar. Destroyed her. Wasn’t even close. I did it because I’m a big man and this proved it. 100%. Her name was Hillary Clinton. Now how could she possibly be president? Tell me that. Stoopid pinko liberals.
OK, it was a coworker of mine who is also a physical trainer, and she’s really strong. A bunch of us were buzzed at the bar and she was wearing a shirt which came with tickets to the gun show, teaching all us slobs that with hard work, dedication, and inner demons constantly screaming their disapproval at you (has to be true right?) you too can have sculpted arms.
To test just how much power these weapons had, I challenged her to an arm wrestling match obviously. Knowing my arm is about a foot longer than hers, we both knew I would win based on sheer physics, but again, I wanted to test for myself just how strong she was. Very strong is the answer, but I still rattled of the victory.
Unfortunately for me, another colleague walking by during the contest (let’s call him “Popeye” for the sake of the story) saw me rag dolling a damsel in distress and needed to defend her honor. Popeye used to play hockey in college and when we put our forearms next to each other for comparison it was twice the thickness. Tons of girth. Basically the Ron Jeremy of forearms.
Popeye gives me a head start, basically starting the match with his hand 3″ from being pinned, and still proceeds to have his way with me. Using all my might (not much) I couldn’t budge him. He mercifully put me down and we all had more drinks, more laughs, more hookers (wait, what?) and called it a night.
About three days later, my elbow is done with me. Hates my shit, threw all my clothes on the front lawn, called me trash on Facebook, and quit everything. I tried resting it, icing it, all the stupid stuff they tell you to do that doesn’t work because you’re just old now. (See Louis CK above)
I wound up going to a doctor. (See Louis CK above)
So here we are now a couple months later and I’ve decided I’m done with all these new world doctors, and their “science” and their “tested medicine” and their “data” and have decided to give acupuncture a whirl. I don’t actually know anything about acupuncture other than I consider it a million percent fake hippie-dippie baloney medicine, but I do know my insurance will cover it so I’m willing to give it a shot. I mean, free’s free!
BUT NOW I’m realizing I might be racist. While researching “tennis elbow acupuncture” (i.e. watching YouTube) I came across this guy:
Are you kidding me with this? Like I said, I don’t know anything about acupuncture, but I know the acupuncturist has to be Asian. I want my acupuncturist to operate on the 2nd floor of a building in Chinatown, sandwiched between a shop decorating their windows with marinaded duck carcasses on floor 1, and an illegally run opium den on floor 3. Otherwise you’re just getting duped.
So yeah, from the list of approved professionals by insurance provider I chose someone based solely on their ethnicity. Is that wrong? I feel like I’m completely in the right on this. If someone told me they were going for a refreshing pint of Guinness in Ireleand at a pub called Giovanni Romanos, I would think it was an awful decision. How is this any different?
So I had a real swell conversation this morning with a buddy of mine about purchasing term life insurance. I’ve sort of put off said expense for a number of years for no reason in particular. That’s not totally true. I’m lazy. That is the first an foremost reason. I am too lazy to do the adequate research necessary to make an informed decision about the type of investment I need to make to ensure my loved ones are cared for financially in the event of my untimely demise. I’m kind of asshole like that.
Recently, I discovered my workplace actually has life insurance that can be purchased which leaves all the decision making to someone other than myself. I thought “sure. why not?”
So my wife and I fill out a few pages of paperwork and that was that. Not so fast my friends. We got feckin’ denied! We’re 40 and 41 years old. WTF?!
So obviously the insurance carrier thinks we’re a big enough risk to die that they don’t want any part of our disease ridden asses. I’m going to go ahead and blame my wife because I’m in denial, but still, what am I supposed to do as a widower with two kids ages 2 and 9? Huh? Did she ever stop to think about that? Couldn’t she have the decency to wait until the young one was at least 18? And now with this news from the insurance company, I can’t even get in on any of that phat dead spouse cash that everyone is raving about.
