The Female Fitness Fear Factor

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I love how women are deathly afraid of “getting big, bulky muscles” when they talk about choosing a fitness program… as if they could accidentally wake up one morning and look like a bodybuilder. Meanwhile, guys are in the gym suffering and killing themselves, downing protein drinks and supplements, trying to get that chiseled, bulky look and maybe 2% of them succeed before losing motivation or burning out.

It’s kind of like not wanting to take a community college science course because you’re afraid you’ll get a Physics PhD. Ladies, please understand, it’s like avoiding going into the kitchen because you’re afraid you’ll accidentally bake a cake… meanwhile, there’s a hundred guys in the kitchen, all wearing chef’s hats, covered in flour, open Duncan Hines boxes everywhere, ovens fired up, bowls full of broken eggs, cookbooks studied and highlighted… and only two of them have managed to make batter… and they’re all highly motivated bakers, because all that these guys have heard and believed without question since they were very young was, “If you can ‘bake a really good cake’ you will be admired, no one will mess with you and you WILL get sex.” Every television commercial and action movie they’ve ever seen where a man gets to have a hot girl on his arm portrays that man wearing an apron and sporting a bundt pan… So these guys arrive ready to bake! Still, one hundred dudes… two cakes.

So, here are my tips for aspiring fit females:

1) You will not get veiny, bulging biceps or shoulders if you train with equipment that is pink.

2) You are in NO danger of suddenly losing your soft curves if you avoid daily training routines that make it feel like your head is going to explode or that your lungs are about to burn their way out of your chest cavity.

3) If you accidentally train daily for a month until you are soaked in sweat and your muscles scream for mercy, then, through some cruel twist of fate, you end up eating half a cup of brown rice, one chicken breast, a half cup of carrots, one protein shake, amino acid supplements, a quarter cup of raw almonds and a half cup of broccoli as your daily diet, DON’T PANIC. One week of television marathons and $20 worth of Ben and Jerry’s will undo ALL the damage you have done during that month.

Rest easy. Go exercise with impunity.

spence.


The Blatant Miss Universe Pageant Scam

Many people feel there is something rotten about the very nature of beauty pageants. I’m fine with them. I like beautiful women, what can I say? I will say this though, with regards to the biggest sham of a pageant of all time, the “Miss Universe” pageant. In case you have missed the glaringly obvious and still believe that pro wrestling is real, allow me to point out the corrupt and biased nature of this once venerable event.

Who wins Miss Universe… every time? An Earth girl. I know our women are attractive, intelligent and charitable, but EVERY SINGLE FREAKING TIME!?!?!? I know, I know. Who is it hurting? No one, right? Wrong. It’s hurting us. We used to be a planet of integrity that would never rig a beauty pageant. We lived in a world where men were men, Julys were for fireworks and whales were for corsets and lamp oil. No more.

And do you know how it’s going to hurt us most? We are PISSING OFF the Martians! You may think of them as a backwards culture of canal dwelling bacteria but they have feelings and if we continue to make a mockery of their females by shafting them at pageant time, the tiny destroyer armada which they are now building will arrive at our planet sometime in the year 2736 and tiny hell will come with them.

I hope you will join me this year in supporting an extra-terrestrial winner at this year’s Miss Universe pageant. It’s simple enough. Cheer loudly for Miss Mars during the evening gown competition. Let the judges know who is the crowd favorite. The life of your great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandchild may depend on it.

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Gay Marriage is Wrong. Period! End of blog title. Exclamation point.

In November 2008, a majority of “yes” votes on California’s Proposition 8 protected the institution of marriage. Some people think gays should be allowed to marry. Homosexuality in all it’s forms, with the exception of hot, spring break, college lesbian make-out, is wrong. But, just because I enjoy Girls Gone Wild, that doesn’t make gay love moral, and neither should those beautiful, hot, nubile, salacious, supple, young ladies have the same rights as I do.

We need to defend our rights as Americans to sit around a bowl of popcorn, as man-husbands and woman-wives, and enjoy the Oscar winning performances in Brokeback Mountain, in the assurance that neither actor was actually gay and that those cowboys will never marry or be afforded the full rights of a straight citizen.

And if some church full of gay people with so-called “beliefs” (which to them are probably just some things they think are true) and so-called “love” for each other (which to them is probably just a feeling) wants to claim they have the so-called “right” to marry because of so-called “freedom of religion” (which to them is probably just their “literal” interpretation of the constitution) then it’s the State’s job to intervene and restrict that freedom. Some freedoms, rights and civil advantages should be reserved for straight people only. End of story.

But the story doesn’t end there. Just because people who are different think they are right and have some “beliefs”, that doesn’t mean that those beliefs should be respected in the laws of our nation, ESPECIALLY if they are a minority. This goes for the Amish, the Buddhists and the National Wildlife Federation. These are all minority groups, whose radical opinions about simple living, the spiritual connection of all beings and owls don’t represent the whole and therefore they have no right to marriage either.

I hope you will join me in introducing federal legislation to stop Amish marriage. If we give equal rights to gays, then the Amish, where does it stop? Soon everyone will feel entitled to them. What would equality be worth if everyone had it?

spence.

” Er…um …Thy knee is touching mine.”


Did Nostradamus Predict Osama Bin Laden’s Death?

Don’t you think the “Osama” verses “Obama” thing had to be screwing with Nostradamus? This is the guy who warned us to watch out for “Hister”. Many people credit the prophecy below with predicting Adolf Hitler’s violent reign:

NOSTRADAMUS QUATRAIN #2 – 24

  “Wildmen ferocious with anger, crosssover rivers,

  The greater part of the battlefield will be against Hister,

  In armor of steel they will make the great assault,

  When the child of Germany will heed no one.”

…and that prediction was difficult enough without our President having been named “Franklin Delano Hipster” to confuse things further.

Though it is controversial, many credit the following writing with predicting recent events involving Obama and Osama…

NOSTRADAMUS QUATRAIN #3 – 58

“And then, after great searching, Ozbama will send two birds bearing men of war to the East

And they will find and kill… wait… that’s not possible.

Why would he have his own men… how could Ozbama be in two different… nevermind.

That one makes no sense.

Scratch that. Let’s go back to the one about the ePhone.”

Conclusive? It’s debatable. What do you think?

Decide for yourself. Whatever you decide, make sure you use it in an argument this week.

“History is the almost arbitrary agreement of many people about who did what, when and how. Nostradamus blows my mind  with how flipping accurate he is, but that cat can’t spell  worth a damn.”

-Martin Luther King

…and if you disagree with Martin Luther King, then you’re no better than the terrorists.

spence.


Theory of Comedy Relativity

Most theories in theoretical physics began with the observation or imagining of something simple. Newton saw an apple falling, Einstein daydreamed about a flashlight. Einstein wondered what would happen if he were riding on a beam of light and turned on a flashlight. Would the light bend?

Great comedians also daydream about some of the same simple things. Steven Wright said, “When I was a kid, I went to my grandfather’s funeral and I was thinking about the batteries in my flashlight. My grandfather was lying in a casket, so I told my aunt that maybe he was in the wrong way.

This is my simple observation…

Have you ever noticed that the funniness of a joke is always relative to the speed at which it is told?

Assumptions:

In comedy, timing is everything. There is a certain point when a joke delivery is just too slow or fast to make the audience laugh. Let’s call those limits the “relative speed of funny”. Let’s look at humor that is delivered on the slower side. Obviously some jokes, when told at slower speeds, are funnier than others, so each joke has a unique threshold that, when passed, diminishes the measurable funniness of that joke to a level of zero. Just imagine you are with a friend and they say,

“Knock. Knock.”

You reply, “Who’s there?”

Five minutes later your friend says, “Amos.”

You’re like, “What?” Your friend is silent. You repeat, “What about Amos? Dude, what are you talking about? Are you ok?” After some time, you put it together. “Amos who?” Days pass and your friend stares blankly.

Finally, while the nurse is changing the IV on your apparently catatonic friend, he spouts, “A-mosquito bit me.”

You glance around the room. His mother is sobbing.  His bleary-eyed wife is signing papers and her head snaps up in shock. The room is silent. You’re friend looks at all of them and says, “Get it?”

Your friend has simply told that joke too slowly. No one finds it funny at that speed. There are natural limits on comic timing.

Nature also has a “speed limit” of 186,000 feet per second, we call that “the speed of light”. Nature will start slowing time down as you approach this speed limit in order to keep you from traveling faster than light.

If I faced you and walked backwards away from you, at a rate just a tad slower than the speed of light, we would both notice each other getting smaller and quieter as I walked away, but if we had super telescopic vision and hearing, we could continue to observe one another. As I approached the speed of light, from your point of view, I would appear as though I were moving and talking slower and slower. From my point of observation, your motions and words would appear and sound to me as though they were speeding up. Time would seem to be passing more quickly at your relative position than it passed at my own. What seemed like a few moments to me, could seem like three long years to you. This may seem far-fetched, but it has been proven repeatedly in real experiments.

The Theory:

If I tell you a joke while walking backwards away from you at just a hair slower than 186,000 feet per second, to me you would appear to get smaller and smaller while never getting my joke. To you, I would appear to be telling the world’s slowest joke, which would not really ever turn out to be particularly funny, because the timing would be off. It would just be delivered too slowly.

If I were able to do a test where I told you that joke multiple times, with exactly the same delivery each time, but at varying speeds of travel, starting slow and then working my way up in speed by one foot per second each time I told it, and you were able to forget each successive telling, so that it would be fresh each time, eventually there would be a round at which the joke went from funny to unfunny. This way, we could determine at the exact speed at which the joke would cease to be entertaining.

That speed is the relative funniness of that joke. (Rf) It is constant when the joke is always told in the exact same way to the same listener. For the purposes of our models, the listener is of a median level of fanship. They know someone who owns the comedian’s album, and think they saw the performer on cable, but are actually thinking of Ray Romano, whom they found amiable and amusing.

Comedy timing being the sensitive beast that it is, for most jokes, the speed at which they became unfunny would be somewhere between 50,000 and  80,000 feet per second. At that range of speeds, their delivery would tend to be just slow enough to become weird and to be unfunny. BUT, if we invented a joke that was so funny that even when we told it over a long period of time, people would laugh at it anyway, that joke would essentially allow the comedian to perceive that his joke was so extremely witty that he traveled into the future. It would also cause the audience member to perceive that the comedian had told a joke that was so uproarious that the riotous nature of it caused him to stop aging completely during the joke telling process.

This brings forward the problem of how do you make a joke so hilarious that, even when told at unprecedentedly slow rate of one jest spread over three years, it is still funny. This is where more relativity must come into play.

Theoretical Method#1 “Hypermouth”

The joke would need to be long enough to take three years to tell at normal speed and yet still be funny. It could then be told by the comedian at an accelerated rate, which to him would seem like only a few moments of hyperfast joke telling and to the audience it would appear as though the comedian just told an epically long, three-year-joke at normal speaking speed and it was really funny on day 1,095. I think this is an impossibility in both physics and comedy, since the joke would likely “jump the shark” after the third month of the audience listening to it and the comedian couldn’t possibly tell a joke with three years’ worth of words at such high speeds without his lips bursting into flames. Even in the vacuum of space the lip molecules would rub against one another and cause massive heat from that friction. His saliva would boil and his tongue would superheat his teeth into molten enamel. No one likes seeing that. I saw it once at an open mic and only the guy’s friends laughed.

Theoretical Method #2 – “Slowjoke”

More effectively, the comedian could learn to tell a shorter joke, but tell it sooooo slooooowly, that to him, it would seem to take three years, but when the audience heard it, it would appear to be at told a normal rate of speech, last only a few moments before completion and be appreciably farcical. “Ha! A mosquito.” [snort]

Conclusions:

I guess what I’m saying is, learning not to rush through good comedy and enjoying the journey is ultimately the secret to both time travel and success in show business. This is proven by both my experience performing and theoretical physics, so I defy anyone to challenge it. If you don’t believe me, try it.

spence.

Please like my comedy page on Facebook and support my pursuits in the ha-ha-hospitality industry.


my day with the mayor of cleveland.

The Mayor of Cleveland came by last week. I awoke at 6 a.m. to the sound of him honking his car horn repeatedly and rather than let him further disturb the quiet, Amish neighborhood in which I reside, I jumped in the back of his impala and we raced off into the crisp morning air. As we sped down the country back roads, the sound of his glass-packed muffler shook the windows of sleepy houses. Old farmers in horse drawn buggies reined their teams tightly and shook their fists as their daughters hurled their bonnets spitefully after us in disgust.

The mayor looked at me with that evil, bloodshot gleem in his eye that he gets after several sleepless days of non-stop rampaging and though I could not smell him in the cold rush of wind coming through the car windows, I knew he reeked of gin and cheap perfume.

“Mister Mayor, do you think we could slow down for a minute and talk about why you’ve gotten me out of bed at such a…”

I was interrupted in mid-thought by the loud, rhythmic smashing sound of mailbox after mailbox impacting against the large, golden key to the city which the mayor swung casually in his left hand, like some kind of crazed, polo-playing juggernaut.

“SMASH!!”

“…at such an early..”

“SMASH!!”

“an early hour of the…”

“SMASH!!”

“forget it.”

We careened into the square of a small town somewhere south of Cleveland proper. The impala screeched to a halt and before I knew it he was out of the driver’s seat and was standing on the edge and looking down into a fountain. I followed him and peered into the rippling waters, hoping to spy the thing which had so abruptly captured his attention.

“Whoa there buddy, gimme some space, I got a shy bladder.”

I backed away awkwardly, “Um, mister mayor… should you really be peeing in there?” I looked around nervously and jerked as I felt a hand on my shoulder. Formulating an excuse for the mayor as I turned to face what would surely be yet another angry sheriff, I was surprised to see a pair of scantily clad ladies smiling and giggling. He had, apparently, brought us here to rendezvous with some strippers that somehow played an integral part in his yet unrevealed plan.

“Let’s go!” said the mayor, hurling an empty gin bottle and simultaneously spinning to scoop up the two showgirls about the waists and skipped drunkenly toward the car. I rushed to catch up as he gunned the engine and a squad car slowly rounded the corner. “C’mon slowpoke!” He shouted my way and he grabbed the scruff of my bathrobe to haul me through the car window into the laps of the cackling girls.

As the squealing of his tires gave way to the sound of a wailing police siren which faded steadily into the distance, I knew two things. First, that there was no cop alive who would catch us today in the mayor’s souped-up muscle car, and second that our easterly direction of travel and the multi-day binge, which his honor was obviously on the tail end of could mean only one possible destination… the zoo.

I checked the date on my watch and made some quick calculations. Yes, it had been nearly four months and if the mayor didn’t see some elephants soon, the city would pay a heavy price. He gets like this at least three times a year. I’ve never ascertained exactly why. The rest of the time he is the genteel, baby-kissing, glad-handing mayor of Cleveland, polite, kind and mild. But for some unknown reason, when the mood takes him, he changes suddenly. He becomes a liquor-swilling butt-grabbing cretin who will rampage and wreak havoc continuously until he is somehow irresistibly drawn to the one thing which will restore order to his reckless state, the Cleveland Zoo. It’s not the zoo itself, so much as it is the right combination of gibbons, bears and tapers that somehow calms his fevered brain. Something about the smells or sounds or the feel of the polar bear’s fur under his naked cheeks as he rides it around its cage, restores him. Something about the frightened shouts of the zoo keepers, whose silence I must repeatedly buy through bribery and elaborate blackmail… some unknowable combination of all these things returns him to sanity.

It is my sad lot as it was my father’s before me and his father’s before him and so on through history, all the way back to our underground society’s first sentinel, Benjamin Franklin, to guard the welfare of the city of Cleveland by standing ever ready and vigilant, never shirking our sacred duty lest there be a repeat of incidents like the great Chicago fire or many other such unfortunate reminders of why each mayor must never be far from his appointed handler who knows the secret trigger which will avert disaster.

To those unsung few who, at the appropriate time, usher their mayor to just the right bowling alley, or deliver to him just the right sandwich, or sing him just the right Credence Clearwater Revival song at the critical moment… to those few, my hat is off. Fight the good fight, my brothers and sisters in noble secrecy. Mayors everywhere are depending upon us.

Does anyone know how to get walrus wee out of vinyl car upholstery?

Afterlogue:
Upon completing this important work of non-fiction, it was brought to my attention that certain elements might be interpreted as sexist. Particularly the parts where I refer to all mayors as “he” are at risk for this misinterpretation. Please let me explain:

1) This piece, though it is true and accurate down to every last detail, is a work of comedy. Rhythm and economy of language are critical to humor. It would be unwieldy to write, “each mayor must always be near his or her handler so that he or she can…” etc. This would not be nearly as funny to read. Trust me. I am a professional.
2) No “handlers” are currently assigned to female mayors in our organization. They do experience this cycle of irrational insanity and destruction as well but the cycle runs at more frequent, monthly intervals and no amount exposure to zoos can save us.

To find out more about politicians, temporary insanity and Benjamin Franklin, visit your local library.


prepare to stare into the eyes of terror!

Gather round chillins, for a spooky Halloween yarn. The legend of the “Night Mare” holds that a foal as black as pitch, born on Friday the 13th gallops the earth, terrorizing the sleep of all who fall beneath it’s icy, unblinking stare. The story has it that the stallion traded its soul to the Devil for the demonic ability to stalk its victims by remaining perfectly silent, unmoving, shiny and plastic. Behold and tremble at the Night Mare’s mastery of this unholy talent.

[Stare at the Night Mare for 10 seconds]

Prophecy has it that in the end times, the Night Mare and it’s hellish offspring will be saddled and ridden across the earth by Satan’s legion of fallen lawn jockeys and garden gnomes. It is said that old Lucifer himself challenged all the imps, demons and gremlins to try to ride the Night Mare, but each was unable to stay astride the dark beast for more than a moment! This was partially due to the slippery, polished surface of the equine fiend’s plastic shoulders and partially due to the fact that it was the eighties and parachute pants were in fashion. They say on nights like this, there still echoes the sound of the Night Mare’s devilish hooves, firmly planted and unmoving. Listen carefully and you can’t hear them now. Moooohahahahahah.

spence.


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