The Future of this Blog

Recently, I’ve been thinking about my likes, dislikes, and the future. I like farts more than anything, but it’s hard to get paid for that. Since it’s my only talent, I’m never going to be able to rake in wads of cash doing something I truly love.

In actuality, I love the following things:

1. Making people laugh.
2. Working out.
3. Writing.
4. Playing guitar.
5. Mastur… don’t have the guts to admit it for real, even though it’s true.

I love HTML and CSS. I’ve always wanted my own web page. I enjoy the hell out of blogging when I’ve got the time and unfortunately, the canvas isn’t available on WordPress.com — rather, WordPress.org. I toyed around with WordPress.org on a local server long before I joined WordPress.com, but I didn’t have a dime to put towards a web host at the time, being in between jobs.

I’ve bought a domain and have a host, and I’m currently getting things ready. It’s really dirt cheap, hell, cheaper than Netflix at least. I’ll keep everyone updated on it as it’s not quite fully baked. This blog isn’t (by any means) flooded with traffic, but the feedback has been incredible and honestly, I never expected 1 view.

I ran into a friend’s mom in Target and she told me she loved my blog, which, much to my surprise, I never knew she’d seen it. To tell you the honest truth, I’ve got a long way to go before I can even hold a candle to some of my followers’ blogs — holy shit! In a generation of txt-tlk and slang, it’s reassuring to know true writers exist (btw, I’m typing this on my iPad and not Bluetooth keyboard, so technically, typos don’t count for this blog).

I’ll keep everyone updated on the rollout! Thanks for the views, comments, and everything else!

Fiber Floaters: I Learned Early

 

Unless you’re among the mountain hermits, homeless, or even hippies you know what a floater is: a turd that floats. Most of us civilized folks drop deuces in a tank of water – commonly referred to as a toilet, shitter, pot, or john. I’ve dropped feces like a wild species in the woods and wiped with a leaf numerous times. Sometimes, because it was a last resort. Other times, it was out of an acquired hatred for the property owner. I’m going to share a story with you today on how I learned what a floater was. It was definitely a crash course that ended in embarrassment, but makes for a great campfire story at family reunions.

Rewind back to the summer of ’95. I was 9, almost 10 years old. My grandpa had a place on Lake Lanier and we’d spend all day out on his pride and joy pontoon boat (pieced together with duct tape and denser than water, but it floated alright). Quick side-note: My mother’s side of the family are Laniers, descendants of Sydney Lanier, the poet (poets get their name in history, but they were all broke bastards). Anyways, a day of fun out on the lake – some 10 hours or so – and wouldn’t you know it: somebody had to shit. You know who that was? Me.

The backbone of the Laniers is farts. I learned how to fart before I could speak – it was so frequent, I thought it was a form of communication. Back to the subject: I had to shit. My grandpa commandeered the floating ‘palace’ towards an island and recommended that I go up in the woods. How stupid, I thought to myself. In my opinion, the lake was a toilet. All forms of wild life drop bombs in it around the clock. 38,000 acres worth of water, what’s a little turd gonna do to it? Anyhow, I played the part, jumped out of the boat and started the short swim to the shore.

At this time, everyone was minding their own business, so I slid down my trunks and started cutting one off. I’m surprised nobody caught wind of it. After all, you’ve got to have skills like a dolphin to pull something like that off. I finished. I then yelled back to the boat, “Ah, I don’t have to go anymore, I’ll just wait until later.” “No!” they all screamed out, “Just go up in the woods and shit, what’s so hard about that?” I started swimming back against their advice and everything was fine and dandy until I heard “Eww! It’s a floater, everybody look! He lied!”

I turned and looked behind me only to see it bobbing in the mild lake current. I thought to myself: That thing was supposed to sink! They were never supposed to see it, what the hell! As I swam back to the boat, Jaws music started playing, it looked like it was chasing me, like a miniature Loch Ness monster – I’m kidding.

That day I learned what a floater was. It never occurred to me that poop floated, it somehow passed me by. I’m so fortunate it happened at an early age, rather than the lake parties I’ve been to lately. Hot women, beers, grown man poops in lake – not cool.

Fiber is good. Eat lots of it. Floaters are a good thing.

 

Sick At The Gym — A Video Blog

Don’t Go To The Gym Sick from Josh Martin on Vimeo.

Don’t go to the gym sick. As bad as you might want to go, it’s not worth it. Stay at home, watch television, and — yes, eat F***ING YOGURT!

I had a flu-like virus that produced juicy diarrhea every 10 minutes that started on Saturday. You’ll find out that you’ll be using the ‘toilet-press’ more than the bench press. The only way to succeed in the gym with epic diarrhea is to wear diapers or like I said: stay home.

Girls Don’t Want Fat Boys

 

You better have a damn good personality or a fat wallet to compliment your weight — because it’s true: girls don’t want fat boys. It’s a shame that looks are one of the first factors that determine interest and it’s probably why a lot of relationships never work. You see, weight can be lost. A bitch personality, on the other hand, can’t. I’ve never heard anyone say, “She used to be a bitch.” Once a bitch, always a bitch is how it usually goes.

I’ll even venture to say that most fat girls don’t want fat boys either. A lot of overweight women have fooled themselves into thinking that their weight doesn’t matter and natural curves are beautiful — and since they have a vagina (that’s the only thing us men care about anyways), they’ll have no problems finding a prince charming to fill them up balls deep and take them shopping everyday. Nobody is excluded from working out and that goes for you too, ‘Lil Miss Bodacious.’ Pound for pound, you’re as healthy as a bucket of KFC fried chicken, so those curves are more of a danger to your health than an asset to your beauty.

I used to be a fat boy, and I know there’s no excuses for chin and belly rolls. There’s no beauty in a gut that plops out over my waistline or a belly button always full of CHEEZ-IT crumbs. I could have fooled myself into thinking my man-tits were hot and that chicks were dying to motorboat them, but we all know that’s not true. Regardless of how good my jokes or personality were, I didn’t have a chance with any girl, or at least it felt that way.

I just wanted to make a point in this blog that looks aren’t everything. Weight can be changed. It fluctuates daily anyways. You could start losing it tomorrow. Whether you want to or not, it’s totally up to you. Losing a personality isn’t as easy — meaning a fat bitch that loses weight becomes a skinny bitch — with the common denominator being the bitch. You can change who you are, but you can change your appearance, and unfortunately, that’s the first perception in society.

 

Wearing a Speedo: Part 2

I ripped on wearing a Speedo in an earlier blog. How any man could wear one in public is beyond me. When you rip on something, it’s only fair to be unbiased, right? In most cases. The only true way for me to understand was to grab a pair, try them on, and snap a picture. I’ll tell you how it all went down.

I was insanely hungover after attending an Eddie Money concert the night before. My mom wanted to have a day of fun with her sons, so we tagged along with her to the Mall of Georgia. They have a huge Dick’s (sporting goods store) in there, so we decided to stop by. I couldn’t help but notice that there was a small display rack of Speedos eyeballing me. I couldn’t avoid them. It’s as if they were whispering “You bashed us on the Internet, ruined our reputation, and yet, you’ve never gave us the opportunity for us to support your balls.”

I grabbed a pair. I then took two random shirts off an adjacent rack to disguise those bright blue man panties. Ironically, the shirts were also Speedo, so if anyone saw them, they’d just naturally assume I was a fan of their flagship product. Screw it, I didn’t care. First dressing room: Locked. “You must locate a store associate to unlock this room.” Second dressing room: Locked. Hands: Shaking. Third dressing room: Score. To find the final unlocked door, I used a strategy stolen from Zelda 64.

I nervously started stripping down. I peeled my underwear off, put my feet through the leg holes of the Speedo and “Oh crap, I’ve got socks on. You can’t wear a Speedo with socks on!” After ditching them, I hoisted them up, did a leg kick to the right, leg kick to the left, and there I stood. God didn’t consider symmetry when crafting the testicular region – I couldn’t tell if there was one, two, or three objects. It was if my ding-dong and balls played a quick game of musical chairs. I was like a frustrated kindergarten teacher, but instead of kids, I was trying to teach my nuts: “You sit here, you there, and hey you – okay, you just sit on the floor.”

I’ve walked the walk, so now, let me talk the talk.

Comfort: 0 out of 10

Absolute torture. My balls are still in pain. As of me writing this blog, it has been 24 hours since I jammed them up in that little Speedo.

Look: NA

Tempurature was a huge factor. The dressing room was freezing, so I was at my worst. Testicles are like a chameleon – but instead of changing color to surroundings accordingly, the change size to varying temperatures. I’ve lost 55 pounds and have been working out regulary, so I was somewhat impressed with the newly acquired, non-typical slimmer physique I’ve earned. You’ve got to remember, I was a walking ball of tamale lard 5 months ago.

Wearability: 6 out of 12

You may notice this section isn’t based on a scale of 10, rather a scale of 12 – because it’s how many beers it would take for me to wear one in public. I’d do it for all for the humor. Nothing would be funnier than to ruin a pool party wearing a weenie bikini nonchalantly and it would be ever so hilarious to have a nut slip loose in an unsuspecting situation. “Oops! My ball fell out! I pushed it back in and like a Newton’s Cradle it knocked the other one out! Sorry!”

 

It doesn’t take balls to wear a Speedo. It’s probably best if you have little or none at all, because they weren’t engineered for most men. I’m proud to say that I’ve done something in the name of science: I went out, tested, and posted the results for the world to see. You can’t knock it til you try it – from drugs to weenie bikinis, it’s all the same. Hope you enjoyed this.

 

12-Hour Shifts

12-hour shifts. Just slip out of your body for half of a full day, leave it there to do the work, and find your happy place. I’m here to tell you – that’s a bunch of bull dookie. Unfortunately, there are those of us who have submitted to the torture just to make some bill-paying dough, with a couple pennies left to stand at a gum-ball machine yelling “Got a purple one again dammit! Anyone wanna trade?”

I’ve started making plans for the first time ever. I plan cool things for the few days I have off every now and then. “I’m gonna go to the river today and then run a 5K – and get those cool earbuds that I don’t need. Then I’ll eat a gyro, go play guitar, hit the gym, and tomorrow go get those other cool earbuds that I don’t need, because these ain’t working out.” Then of course, I end up sleeping til 1:00 PM, eating left over tuna, sitting outside for the rest of the day watching my dog drop deuces like it’s going out of style. And on top of that look at photos of the “girl-of-the-week” on Facebook that I have no chance with. “She’s got a small birthmark on her forehead, maybe I can get a discount. I can just see us having the time of our life at 2 for 1 margarita night down at El Restaurante Loco. Is that her brother or her boyfriend that’s holding her on the beach? Shit! He better not be screwing her.”

By 5 o’clock, I’m about as worthless as pair of steel balls on the back of a raised Ford pickup truck; I just tag along, bouncing my way around until it stops. The human body was made to work 8 hours. I don’t know how anyone goes beyond. It’s painful. But, I still workout, smelling like sauerkraut, and never pout about, it.

This is a quick-fire blog. Thanks for joining me tonight.

Grunting at the Gym: A Case Study

There’s nothing wrong with releasing a little steam – as it’s perfectly normal to exhale for each rep. I think there is a degree of exhalation that is acceptable, with 1 (the lowest) being a normal exhale and 10 (the highest) being the constipation grunt when nobody’s home. You know, the one where you squeeze to the point of being light-headed and seeing stars.

I’m going to provide 3 different grunts that I’ve witnessed in the gym. I never hear women grunting, simply because they don’t frequent the gym after 9 PM for some odd reason (that’s when I go) – maybe they don’t want to interrupt the sausage fest. Who knows.

• Whispering Hum Grunt (1/10 on the Grunt Scale)

This is the natural grunt that occurs under heavy to moderate loads. Nothing out of the norm for a gym (or a casual 3 PM dump).

• Snaggle-tooth Snake Grunt (5/10 on the Grunt Scale)

This is the noise that occurs when you put the tip of your tongue on your teeth and blow. This technique, when used to blow in your girlfriend’s ear, will usually result her slapping you rather quickly. Lastly, if you pronounce your S’s this way, people might question your sexuality.

• The Round 2 Sex Grunt (10/10 on the Grunt Scale)

This is the most severe grunt I’ve ever heard. The only place this can be heard outside the gym is in the bedroom. This might be the reason women don’t frequent the gym, as I mentioned earlier in the article. You’re completely finished, ready to crash on the recliner and watch Sports Center on ESPN – as a matter of fact, sex is the last thing on your mind, but she begs you for a back-to-back slam-o-rama – and being a guy, you can’t turn sex down, as it’s not in your DNA. You have absolutely no energy. Your calves are locked up from the previous session 5 minutes prior. Magically, you think you’ve got it and then you realize you don’t – you’re on a plateau. Like a car stalled out on a steep incline, you’re slamming the pedal to the metal and there’s nothing but rage as you’re giving 200% of the lousy 10% you have left.

Solution

I completely ignore grunters. In most cases it’s a plead for attention. Same goes with people in tricked out cars with loud bass next to me at red lights: I pay no mind. When people want attention, the best is not to give it to them. I’m a strong fellow and the solution I’ve found to work the best is to walk over to the weight bench, throw on 300+ pounds, and lift gracefully as if the weights were made of feathers. Do not ever fail when doing this. Under-compensate and you will be just fine.

 

Fatass Epidemic

 

I was reading an article from The Washington Post saying how 42% of adults will be in the obese category by 2030. Aproximately 30% are already there as we speak. It’s an epidemic, it’s like the plague – you can’t stop this shit! Let’s just say that a million people read that article today. That means that 120,000 of those individuals are going to be eventually considered clinically, well, a fatass.

It’s not an epidemic in my opinion. It’s technology and convenience. I didn’t start becoming a fatass until I had access – convenient access. Cook? That’s what McDonalds is for. People cook it for you. They get paid to do that. Is it healthy? Who gives a shit, because oftentimes, convenience doesn’t insinuate quality. When you really need a blow job, you don’t spend all day hanging out at the mall asking every single woman – you call the lonely chubby girl that will do anything just to hang out. Weird example, I know, but I got to get my point across.

My point is very simple. Let’s look back in time, say, in the early 1800s. It’s you, your parents, brothers, sisters, and everyone living off the land. You want chicken nuggets? Go chase a live chicken around for 3 hours until you puke trying to hit it with a shoddy slingshot you made the day before. Delivery didn’t even exist back then. Usually anything delivered was killed out of desperate measures and it usually wasn’t the best cut of meat.

Another example is a domesticated dog. My dog prefers the inside to the outside – she prefers loathing in a clean, sanitary environment unlike most dogs who roll around in their own turd piles all day. She was genetically engineered to be a survivor, yet, she’s pampered like a queen, has more legal rights than a human (sad we can’t just conveniently poop in the backyard without getting the law called), and has easy access to a bowl of food all day. She’s a lazy fatass when it boils down to it. She does whatever is convenient. Why go chase a squirrel or a bird down when there’s half a cheeseburger waiting on you when you get up from your 24 hour nap? It’s bullshit. Throw that mutt out into the wild and I guarantee things would change once survival instincts kick in.

I really do think that gyms are great and I go all the time. However, I think they’re there to counteract the majority of our laziness. You’ve got to give it to the people who go. There’s a guy at my gym who can barely walk, but yet he spends 1-2 hours a day trying. There’s a fat girl out there who will get in her Pontiac Sunfire at midnight to go to 7-11 to get some Zebra Cakes, but yet she’s in no hurry to get to a place that will get her healthy. It’s hard to think that the fat girl is stricken by an “epidemic.” It’s pretty bad that obesity and the West Nile Virus are both considered “epidemics.” I was a fatass once and I’m pretty sure I’d rather slam fried chicken all day than get stung by a little bastard mosquito. It amazes me that the media considers this an epidemic.

 

Chronicles of a Fat Boy: Minus 50

There’s nothing wrong with being fat. Nothing. As long as your happy and people don’t consider you to be a bitch, you will be fine.

I remember getting naked in front of the mirror and wondering how my girlfriend slept with me. After all, my man-breasts were almost the size of hers. I told her one time that we were getting too big. Under the covers, we were like pigs in a blanket. Literally. When you crave a Little Debbie after an afternoon scrogging, something has got to change and I think it’s called lifestyle.

I dumped her later on, because she cheated on me with a guy that was always mysteriously around when I wasn’t. Ever heard the scenario: I was meeting some friends to eat and it was only him who showed up. All the other girls couldn’t make it. Bullshit.

It was hard for the 2nd and 3rd day because I was just getting over it and rethinking my decision. On the 1st day, I invited the neighbor girl across the hall over to drink beer and listen to music. I had a blast on that day. Turns out, that girl is one of my best and closest friends; I really think she’s me in female form – a farting, funny, and down to earth girl. We had one thing in common that we never got the ball rolling on: exercising.

I met her in Florida, where I lived for a year due to a job-relocation. I moved back to South Carolina, which was the greatest 11 hour trip I’ve ever had to drive. I missed my family most of all. They’re all flatulently fluent like me, so we’re all one big happy fart-loving family. I no longer worked anymore and my best friend was opening up a gym within walking distance from my home. My fat blobs were quivering in fear, but the freshly new mentally prepared me knew I had to change. Change what? My lifestyle you bastards! I forgot the purpose of this blog entry, but I’ve typed too much on my iPad – with my index finger on the DL with a work-related injury (I was picking my nose at work and a razor sharp booger cut it).

I was up to 270-something pounds. So bad, I had to unbutton my jeans and let down my zipper while driving to let my fat air out. Sometimes my balls would also fall out and then… I’m kidding!

Today, I weigh 220 lbs. I’m down 50-plus pounds. Depending on my pooping schedule tomorrow, I may break into the teens. Still, I’m happy. I’ve stuck to something and succeeded – something I’ve never been good at. I was always athletic up until college and turned into a lazy bastard, which is way too easy.

I’ll tell you this and I don’t want it to be taken the wrong way. I’ve done this for myself – as I don’t think it would be possible to do this for somebody else for so long with the level of dedication it has taken. However, I think my old girlfriend was the catalyst for it. You waste a few years of your life in a relationship that dies, and after flying solo, you get motivation to be a better man. It’s just you, your money, your life, and you can work towards anything you want to without a nagging voice disagreeing with every damn good idea you ever had.

So whatever it is that you want to do, go do it. If you want to lose your man tits or FUPA, what’s holding you back? Little Debbie won’t close down without your business, so don’t worry about that.

 

Wearing a Speedo

 

 

How any man can wear a Speedo, I don’t understand. I quit wearing man-panties (tighty-whiteys) at the age of 6. Actually, I’m kidding, I was more traditional and wore them up until 14 – when my balls dropped.

 

I’m a man, so I’m going to explain the problem with tightey-whiteys (abbreviated TW for the remainder of this blog). I don’t think the male anatomy was meant to be subject to such contortion within such a small space. Imagine putting your dog in a box that’s just small enough that they can’t rotate. Keep them in there for more than a minute and it’s inhumane. Maybe not the best example, but you get the point.

 

The worst part about TWs is that the seems are way too close to the ball-sack skin. In turn, ‘pinching’ occurs and it’s impossible to do a quick leg kick to ‘undo’ in public – you know, the dead-leg-rattling-incognito maneuver to situate your nuts. The hottest woman on earth couldn’t get me to wear such small underwear and contrary to what they think, they’re not stress relieving balls or punching bags. Definitely not muscadines either.

 

I just went through all of that to ask how in the hell any man could wear a Speedo to the beach. What is the thought process in their head? I can’t imagine the point at which I looked in the mirror in a cold hotel room with my balls mashed up in a small weenie bikini – just minutes before hitting the sand in front of families, children, and millions of others.

 

After a few beers, I’d probably have one twisted around my leg not realizing it, and I could just see it now: some mother coming up to me: “Excuse me sir, sir! Please tuck your ball back in, we came here to enjoy the sun, not a sex education style demonstration! My children are terrified!”

 

See, I’d never do that, but I had to put myself in the situation to try and understand it and I can’t. I’ve never seen a normal guy wearing a weenie bikini – it’s always a foreigner, creep, or pedophile.