David Sedaris is not Trendy, Asshole.

I had the pleasure of interacting with a bystander in my life that claimed that the only reason I liked David Sedaris was because his books were on sale at Urban Outfitters. I use the term “bystander” to describe people in my life who are like human furniture in the background. They’re around. They’re lurking back there somewhere forcing me to interact with them in a cursory type manner, but they are not real active people in my life. Furniture is interchangeable and so are these people.

In any case, what I wanted to say to said bystander was, “Nice thought, douche, but believe it or not, David Sedaris’s books can be bought at other retail outlets. His work is not solely sponsored by our dear friends at Hipster Central.”

I cringe to think that people may overlook Sedaris’s brilliant work because it happens to be in Urban Outfitters on the same shelf as the picture book of penises, which by the way we shouldn’t automatically judge to be poor literature/art anyway. (This is probably another topic for another post on another day.)

His books are at Urban. So, what? An asshole with his plaid shirt, smug self-entitlement, and skinny boy jeans in the damn store in the first place buying another hip trendy knit cap is going to discredit books that are being sold at the very store that supplies his hipster wardrobe/ forced lifestyle? Contradiction? Paradox? Douche baggery?

Oh, yes. I think so.

Read his essays. They are fucking hilarious. His work inspires me every day to talk more shit.

David Sedaris should be given the acclaim he deserves especially from douches that haven’t even read his work or douches that claim they read voraciously, but actually only look up books on Wikipedia for plot summaries.

You douches suck. Sedaris rocks.

Gym, Rats!

There are only two criteria that go into choosing a gym: hospitality and hotness. The big H’s that go into most decisions that I make in my life. My gym closed and relocated to a farther destination and I decided to see what other gyms were in my close vicinity.

Choosing a gym is a serious decision. It’s like choosing a second home. After several weeks of cautious deliberating, I called ahead of time and made an appointment with a nearby gym.

I walk in and I say, “Hi! I’m here for an appointment.”

The Neanderthal-looking douche bag behind the counter says sarcastically, “Ummm. Could you be more specific?”

Hmmm. Well, let’s see. We are at a gym. I have a gym bag on my shoulder. So, I say, “Ya. I’m here for my colonoscopy appointment. Is Dr. Roto-Rooter in, you dumb fuck?”

DISCLAIMER: I did not say this, but instead I say, “Um. I made an appointment for a gym membership.”

Douche bag curtly says, “Well, who was it with? Jimbo? Dumbo? Tardo?” (Okay. Those are probably not the names he said, but at this point, it should be clear that I do not recall the name of the person I have an appointment with. Naming arbitrary names does nothing to help the situation.)

I say, “I don’t remember his name.”

This is where douche bag gets really upset by the complicated problem he is faced with and with no credible solution to solve this challenging conundrum, he grunts, shakes his head in annoyed frustration, and stomps away.

I’m not fucking kidding.

Then the pudgy girl behind the counter steps up and says, “Oh. You must be here for Jimbo’s (who knows the name?) appointment. He’s not here. Something came up. He won’t be in until Monday. I’m covering for him.”

Silence.

I say, “Okay.”

She says, “What did you want?”

“A membership! I want to join a gym!”

She says, “Oh. Well, it’s going to be $39.00 a month.”

Silence.

More silence. And she’s staring at me.

Now, I’m completely in shock. This is how you sell shit to people? A blind, deaf, dumb, mute, semi-unconscious chimpanzee sells shit better than that.

I say, “That’s it? That’s what you’re going to tell me? This is the membership meeting?”

Her response: “Yup.”

No one shows me around the gym. No one tries to tell me about any specials or deals. My membership meeting was over in 30 seconds.

This is when I turn around, get in my car, and drive the extra 15 to 20 minutes to get to my relocated gym.

On my drive over there, I replay the incident in my head. I may have been more lenient if the gym staff had been hotter, which finally brings me to the second H.

When I walk into my gym, I want to see hot smiling people behind the counter. The gym staff should, by visual cues alone, encourage the rest of the gym to strive for a better life full of hotness. If you’re going to be a lazy incompetent dick, you better be smoking hot. It’s almost acceptable. If I see people behind the counter with worse bodies than my own, I will not be motivated. I’ll turn the fuck around and speed to the nearest Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.

This is what I was faced with: two non-hot inhospitable assholes.

Remember the two H’s: Hospitality and Hotness. It’s important for these important life decisions.

(I’m still searching for another gym.)