Tricks of a Triathlon

I have been inspired to work out all the time now. I know that most of you may be rolling your eyes and saying “We’ve heard this before”, but HALT my weary reader, this time I am a changed man.

I was recently working a triathlon; we were filming it and I knew several of the participants competing. It was early, it was humid, we won’t even talk about my hair, I really would have rather slept in to be honest, but my demeanor soon changed, because as I turned the corner I was greeted by greased abdominals and perky pectorals.

The beach was full of men wearing nothing but booty shorts and baby oil.

What in the hell? Where has all this man meat been hiding in Hilton Head? It was paradise. I mean, yes, there are some prune-like old men wearing spandex and Speedo’s, but you have to take the good with the bad.

As soon as I realized that I was salivating and experiencing a tingle in my tutu area, I had to snap out of it and pretend that I wasn’t noticing the delicious assortment of beaux-hunks.

Let Me Tell You How This Works:

1. The Arrival- You get there and you go sign in and get your cute little tag to wear while you compete. Then a woman comes and writes the same number on your arm with a permanent marker. THEN, this is the best part, she writes your age on the back of your right calf! She is doing all the work for you, and she doesn’t even know it, she is like the best wing man ever! This allows for you to scope out all of the potential candidates in your age range without even having to talk to them. Talk about perfect?

2. The Start of the Race- Everyone gathers in a big cluster barely clothed; they are shaking hands, patting asses, HUGGING! Agh. Anyways, this allows time for you to take your position near the age appropriate hotties that you have scoped during the arrival section. Make sure to tell them “Good Luck” or something of that nature so you know that they have taken notice to you, I mean of course they would notice you anyways, you’re hot, but just in case they’re way too in the zone, you at least make your mark.

3. The Swim- As the gun, or cowbell as it was in this instance, goes off you run into the water. Try and stay close to your options, but not too close, we aren’t desperate. This swimming portion allows for further inspection of their back, arms and shoulders, muscle groups you are going to want to take into consideration. I mean, what if you marry one of these men? Aren’t you going to want to have a strong man to carry you across the threshold of your new home after your wedding? You certainly don’t want a scrawny little thing that gets a hernia when he attempts to lift you. These are the things you have to think about. Also, don’t worry about the jellyfish stings; there are so many people peeing in the water at this point, that it won’t hurt but for a minute.

4. The Biking- As you and your dripping wet hunks make it out of the water you have to run to your bike. At this point in the race you can choose to tag in a team mate to do the biking part for you. If one of your options does decide to do this, cross him off the list; this shows that he lacks stamina, and we know what that means. You don’t want a strong man to carry you across the threshold on your wedding night with his big arms, and then have to “tag someone in” because he lacks the stamina, no ma’am! Follow the “one man team”. The biking can get rigorous, but stay with it, this is ample time to check out his legs, and of course his buttocks.

5. The Run- Girl, I know this race is difficult but you can do it. This is the best part, he’s shirtless and wearing barely any pants! I know that you may be lacking energy but this is where we have to power through. At this point it is safe to jog alongside your new found men ( I am pretty sure you have narrowed it down to two or three by now). Staying alongside him at this point will make him realize that he has some competition that he didn’t have before; of course, we all know that you could easily smoke him, but you have been busy checking him out the whole race. The final test starts here. Keep in time with your prey, it may be a smart idea to even get in the same rhythm as him, and then pretend you have a bead of sweat forming around your eye. Take your elbow and casually, without breaking stride with him, wipe your face to “clear the sweat”. This is an old trick, but it works. While your man may think that you are just wiping your sweaty brow, the real intent is to check out what he is packing; don’t act like you haven’t done this, I know you have. I realized yesterday that triathlons are the ideal place to see what is going down in Wienerville, they just flop around like nobody’s business, for everyone to see! Even though there is this blatant display of manhood, be discrete, it is not a good feeling when a man sees you ogling his goodies, he thinks you are only interested in one thing after that, and we are ladies, that isn’t ALL we are after. Think about the wedding night, the big arms and high stamina may be worthless with out a decent sized friend joining the party. Be weary of no flop, but cautious of TOO much flop, a little swingin' is all we be needin'.

6. The Finish Line- You did it! You finished the race, and looked damn good doing it. You also found a potential mate in the midst of things, whether he knows it or not. Just because you have crossed the finish line, doesn’t mean you are done with your prowl, you have got to walk it out, I mean you just did a triathlon and all. Follow him discretely (if you haven’t noticed yet, the general theme is to be close enough to be approachable, but far enough away to be mysterious), start to stretch. Pass a flirtatious look his way when he is bent over stretching his calves, and catch his eye. Smile turn away.

7. Awards- OK, so you did a great job, and you won 18 trophies, but the ultimate prize hasn't been won yet. You see your man walking off the platform, he is carrying an award, of course, we only choose award winning men. At this point you should start talking. You chose the conversation, you are in control, he is suitable for you, not the other way around sister.


Good Luck.


I had once thought that triathlons were a place where only skinny people who have no sort of social life went to hang out with their own kind. On the contrary my friends, the women who attend these wiener races have it all figured out.

Now, where is my speedo?

epic. not.

I wanted to write an epic post today.

Once I logged on I couldn't think of what I wanted to write about...

I am currently in South Carolina working on a show, I guess my wishes to get out of Los Angeles were granted. I will be here until October! How uber exciting is that?! I am going to use my work as my excuse as to why I have not been so diligent about my blog, but I am going to do better. I promise.

High heels are not really a fashion staple here in SC. I mean, no one really appriciates them. All you see are flip flops, and the ever dreaded kitten heels. South Carolinians WAKE UP! Clogs and wedges with cut out shapes in the middle of them are not ok to wear.

Alas.

I just got done watching 9 to 5 for the first time and I have to say that I am underwhelmed. I mean I love all the actors, but Lord-a-mercy it is a dragggging movie.

A better post will follow this one shortly. I am sorry for the epic-less-ness of this one....but is there anyone out there even reading these things anymore?

xoxox
William

FUPA FIASCO

I JUST found out what a FUPA is. I thought that it was short for “flirty under pant action”.

Sadly, this is not the case and I am outraged that no one told me.

I think that my first indication that my acronym was incorrect, should have been the looks that I got when I went around telling all the beautiful jacked men at the gay bars that I had some FUPA action happening, and their perfect smiles turned straight to disgust.

Thinking that my ass had lost its “Umph” and that men no longer wished to ogle my goodies, I went to the one place that would tell me the truth, the internet.
For those of you who are not aware of what FUPA stands for, it is the “Fat Upper Pubic Area”. Urbandictionary.com describes this as follows: Descriptive of the phenomenon common with men and women so afflicted by obesity that their pubic area is used to store patches of fatty waste.

So…are you telling me that I told all of these handsome creatures that I have a fat upper pubic area and not that I was sporting sassy boxer briefs?

Yes.

And I am MORTIFIED.


Ughskies, no wonder I am single.

xoox

William

Psychic Readings..

I got my fortune told the other day, and in retrospect I am pissed off that I did it. I don’t understand why I paid some woman with saggy boobs and acne scars to tell me about how miserable my life is. I left there a little sickened with the thought that this woman was making so much money off people when I don’t even think she is legit. Below are some of the things that made me ask the question: “How ‘psychic’ is this bitch?” **NOTE** I DO BELIEVE IN THOSE WITH SUPERNATURAL ABILITIES, JUST NOT THIS FAKER.

1. My Love Life

This Miss Cleo wannabe told me that I was having issues in relationships, as if that was some ground breaking phenomenon. Hmmm...Ok, well, I counter that statement with “Who isn’t?” Are you trying to sit there and tell me that I am the ONLY person who is having love issues? Everyone else is completely happy? No Ma’am.

2. My Poor Life Decisions

She asked me why I didn’t go to school longer, “you should have kept going”. Now, for those of you who have the pleasure of listening to me have complete break downs about my second guessing of opting not to pursue a college education, you will know that this rattled me a little. This is when I started to doubt her though. I sat there for a hot minute and pondered how she could have known this. Well, one reason could have been that I look like I am 12, I mean I got a kid’s menu the other day, it’s not a secret that I look like a 7th grader. Aside from my cherubic demeanor, I am sure she also noted how soft and moisturized my hands were, due to my bi-monthly paraffin waxes, and thought that they could only be the hands of someone not withered and aged my the cruelties of time.

3. “You Hate Yourself, You Are Not Happy”

While hate is a strong word, I will give her this, I am not “in love” with myself, which is sad, I know. And while I do have difficulties embracing myself, I have to point out this tiny fact. If you were a borderline plus size gay man in West Hollywood, wouldn’t you find it hard to love yourself too? I mean, sure I have a personality that is pretty damn impressive, I must say, but WeHo is the pinnacle of gay perfection, which means you should only be seen, and not heard. I am not one of these 6’2 waxed, bleached, tanned, buffed, men in designer (although this is Yves Saint Laurent mascara, thanks for asking), who carries his teacup Chihuahua in a Louis tote. I am 5’8 wearing a Banana Republic bag and Jessica Simpson platforms, how couture am I? This bitch hit the nail on the head, but it is a bit of an exaggeration, because while all these men are gorgeous, they are equally as self loathing as I, for one reason or another. No big shocker, lady.


She put on quite a show I must say, I mean she was no Meryl Streep, but more like a Hillary Swank, doing enough work to get by, and still getting invited to parties just because she has been around long enough. Whatever.
I do need to love myself more, I am taking that lesson from the experience, but I am also telling myself that she is just some lady with a couch who “reads palms”. At least she didn’t start sacrificing a goat in front of me. I mean, I know that these are Jessica Simpson shoes, but do you know how hard it is to get blood out of suede?


Loving you, and myself Always. Ever so thankful for your support..

Xoxoxooxx
William

Sock Scandal

I think I experienced my first heart attack this morning in my journey into work. I saw a girl wearing black peep toed Chanel knock offs, and some navy wool socks. Cut to my heart ceasing to beat and me gasping for air.

I sat down and performed a breathing exercise to keep the room from spinning.

Trying to give her benefit of the doubt,I carefully researched color blindness statistics in women and learned that it is very unlikely that she in fact is color blind, because it is more predominant in men. With this helpful tid-bit I was able to draw the conclusion that this know-nothing willingly paired black with navy.

While I am concerned about her poor decisions in color pairing, I'm more greatly concerned with the fact that this ding dong was wearing socks with open toed shoes. Wool socks for that matter,we live in Los Angeles not the Alaskan tundra .

If some of you have been inhabiting the same cave that this girl was obviously living in, let me go ahead and clarify this for you: if you are going to wear a shoe that shows any part of your toes, you should not be wearing anything but the shoe. No socks (wool or otherwise), no pantyhose (those are over), nothing. Some people try to argue that you can wear some chic leggings...no bitch, you can't. The whole purpose of a "peep toe" is so that we can catch a glimpse of you little piggies, not you K-Mart "Bare Necessities" brand nylons.


While this girl was a violent offender of this rule, she is not the worst. The worst would be the teenage girls that were shopping the mall the other day wearing tube socks with their gladiator sandals. I understand that their teenage angst may pardon their foul moods at times, but there is only so much you can blame on the hormones, there is no excuse for this footwear faux pas.

I may being praying a rosary for these victims.


I find no room for negotiation on this matter, and while some of you bravely defend your clogs and tube tops, let it be known that out of any of my rants, this one is ranking supreme.

Loving you long time.

xoxo
William

The Not So Little Mermaid...

I went skinny dipping in the Pacific Ocean on Saturday night, and I am not going to lie to you, I think I would make a terrific mermaid.

Of course there was alcohol involved in this endeavour, and it ended in some scabbing of my leg.

Let me tell you guys something, I think that I am one of the only people who can cause themselves pain in the process of swimming naked.

My friends Andrew and Amanda, partook in this event as well. However, those two assholes stood there and did NOT go on the count of three, like they swore they would. So I was the only one, running my fat white ass covered in nothing but the moonlight, straight into the deep blue sea.

Well, they did follow suit, thankfully, and Andrew in a fury of excitement busted his well toned Colombian ass, eating sand, but eventually making his way in to the water as well. Amanda kind of skipped in, leisurely.
Oddly enough I came out with blood all over my left leg, and was so thankful that sharks were afraid of blood...wait..damn...that was the champagne talking.

I think I was attacked by coral or some seashells. Or a shark..that would make an amazing story. We will go with that. I was attacked by a shark while I was skinny dipping in the ocean with two friends under a champagne fueled spree of spontaneity.

Parental Control

I hate to say this, but I am kind of an advocate of scaring the shit out of children. I think that children should be completely mortified of what their parents or guardians may do to them if they disobey orders.

These twin 7 year old boys were at the Post Office with a woman, who, I assume was their mother, given she had bags under her eyes, a lone hot roller stuck in the back of her head, and a chipped manicure. This girl hadn't slept in weeks it looked like. So I was standing behind them holding my package (ha) and waiting for the sea of people to move forward when one of the kids threw a pen at me. I kind of did that half-glare half-smile look to him and handed the pen to the mother who apologized.

Whatever.

So as we proceed forward one of the kids starts talking about how he has to use the bathroom and had to go right then. He was screaming, like squealing-screaming that he had to go at that very instant. He was pulling at his mother's already ill-fitting peasant blouse, and almost ripped it off. At the same time the other boy, who had thrown the pen, was now tearing up shipping slips and throwing them on the floor. The mother was horrified.

Now I know that I have never raised a child, nor am I a very patient person, but PARENTS LISTEN TO ME for I am about to tell you something that everyone in wants to say to you when you are that woman in the post office.

SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR KID. Please, do not make it a habitual occurrence, do not abuse them, but knocking them one time will keep them from doing it again. Also, if they are whiny, fussy, crying, etc., please don't hit them. BUT if they are raising hell in public, by all means, go on ahead. If a hippie cloth of the earth clad person tries to call you out for abuse and calls the cops, I will personally come save you.

If you don't agree with the open hand slap, fear not, because there is another tactic that you can use. If you are dealing with a small child, threatening them with a wooden spoon is one of the best scare tactics. My stepmother (Wendy) used to keep one in her car, in her purse, everywhere my sister went, the wooden spoon monster was lurking somewhere close by. If you can get the wooden spoons with the holes in it, they work best, according to Wendy.

The belt, the switch, the wooden spoon, all of these will spark a fear in your child, if they aren't afraid, you aren't doing it hard enough.

Maybe I am the only person this bothers, but we have all seen that poor woman once in our lives. The one with her kids running all over her, controlling her. HELLO LADY! You are in charge, take that Target brand flip flop off and whack your child with it. Show them what's up. Ugh.

I hate when parents don't take control of their kids, I guess they deserve what they get.

Shitheads.