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Effortlessly Average

Sort of half-heartedly leading the charge into mediocrity since, oh, let's say around 1987 or so.

My Photo
Location: Roaming (additional charges may apply), Argentina

Proof that with internet access and a powerful laxative, even insipid people will blog; the place where your excellence and my mediocrity collide; where my Karma whips ass on your dogma.

Sunday, April 27, 2008


So as the more perceptive of you will note, I've been absent a short while. Now don't go gettin' all weird on me; the fact that we made out and I didn't call you fourteen times the next day doesn't mean that I've gotten what I sought and now have moved on to the next conquest. No, I've actually been nursing several muscles pulled due to the continual clinching required to prevent being reamed by the union reps. Oh, they're all sweet as pie in the beginning. Well, except meat pie. Meat pie isn't sweet. Oh, on the surface, meat pie sounds like it should be good with a capital MMMMM! I mean you got meat: Good! You got pie: Good! But unless by "meatpie" you mean that particular part of a woman that goes well with whipped cream, meat pie is not what I'd call a tasty treat. It might sound good, but it tastes like ass.

And then there's rhubarb pie; another pie that makes you want to thrust your finger down your throat. Did you know rhubarb is a relative of buckwheat? I wonder why we never saw him on and Little Rascals episodes. Oh, and did you also know that the historical use for rhubarb was to induce vomiting? As far as I'm concerned that makes it singularly UN-fit to be a pie filling.

Anywho... I didn't bring you here to talk about pie. I brought you here to look at this*:

For those of you who can actually see that picture, you'll notice the little red circle. That's the current level of unread posts y'all have decided to share with the world which this particular visitor has yet to view. So as you can see, I've got a lot of reading to do.

*UPDATE::: That reads "671" for those of you with poor eyesight for one reason or another.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Gather 'round

So, now don't go wandering away on me. I'm doing some of that there Finance Rock Star stuff, so I'll be right with you. So for those of you who've graciously come to visit, I'd just like to say:

  • Kitty - I accept your tag and I'll get to it straight away.
  • Crystal - I accept your tag as well, but I've got to figure out how to separate which songs I'd wild bang to, versus those I'd just leg hump to.
  • Did I miss anyone else's tag?
  • Anonymous - No, I don't have a pint of Astroglide, and frankly, if I wanted to be on my knees with balls flying all around me, I'd attend that party at Elton John's.
I'm leaving for CA again tomorrow cuz I must engage in pitched battle with the likes of the union representatives. Such is the life of EA, the Oprah of the finance world. I'll post tomorrow from my hotel in SF. And don't you feel special? Kind of makes you feel like an international presence, don't it?

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Gotta Keep Moving

So I've only got a second before I have to get moving again. I'm out of breath, my legs are screaming at me to stop running and, frankly, I'm a bit scared.

As I've mentioned before, I'm on my way to Argentina this year. It's not going to be an easy trip. So I've got to get into better shape. Apparently not having anything remotely close to a metabolism, I've engaged "outside help" in my quest to look something closer to what I was in college. This is also a cautionary tale regarding buying anything on the internet, so beware, fuckers!

While I scoured the 'nets, looking for info on the best way to transform from Orca into something resembling [insert hot celebrity of choice here], I came across an ad for a weight loss program that not only was full of testimonials, but guaranteed success with their "Tier III" program. Yes, guaranteed. According to this site, you had three options:

  • Tier I: $450 for five days and a loss of 10 pounds

  • Tier II: $850 for eight days and a loss of 20 pounds.

  • And Tier III: $1,250 for twenty days and a guaranteed loss of at least 40 pounds.

No surgery. No weird pills, shakes, or diets. Just one phone call and the ball would be rolling. But I'm also a Finance Rock Star and it simply wouldn't do for me to pour that kind of green down the hole on a program I can't say for sure would work. Besides, it could be a scam right?

So I decided on the Tier I program and made the phone call. Questions were asked and answered. Details given. Credit card number revealed. I was "in."

Two days later I received a knock at my door and when I answered it I was greeted by a stunning blonde who joyfully pronounced that she was my trainer for the next five days, at the end of which I'd be at least 10 pounds lighter.

I invited her in.

We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments.

Based on our conversation it seemed obvious some walking or running was going to be involved. I'm not a fan of running, but hey, the way she looked she could ask me to eat the ass out of a dead rhinoceros and I'd have done it.

She finally asked for a place to change into her workout gear. I pointed her to my bedroom and she disappeared while I waited outside. I spent a few moments stretching while she changed.

After a few moments passed, she emerged from my house wearing nothing but a pair of Nike runners and a smile. She gave me a wicked grin as my eyes made lecherous passes over her rock hard, tanned, naked body.

"Now, time for your workout. If you can catch me, you can have me."

And with a burst of speed I haven't seen since the last woman I met online met me in person, she bolted. For five days I tried, but I never caught her.

On the plus side, though, I stepped on the scale the day after our last cat and mouse -about three weeks ago now- and sure enough, I'd lost the promised 10 pounds. Eleven, in fact. I was understandably stoked.

So I called the company again and forked over another chunk of change for the Tier II program. The same numbers, questions, blah blah blah changed hands and I waited for what I could only imagine would be TWO naked girls to chase. I hoped they'd follow the same mentality as one would have when coming across a hungry bear when hiking with a buddy: "I don't have to be faster than the bear, just faster than YOU." I thought my chances were good of getting at least one of them.

The next day found me dressed and ready at the appointed time.

A knock at the door.

I about bounded across the room, pausing only long enough to regain my composure and adopt a cool, collected veneer over my horny perv core before opening the door.

What stood before me wasn't two women, but one of the hands down most amazing looking women I've ever laid eyes on. And she was already wearing nothing but running shoes and a smile. I guess they've grown smart enough to anticipate that some patrons might try to skip the run and go right for the goods during the changing process, so this trainer showed up ready for business.

There's simply no way to describe in words big enough just how hot this woman was. Her long dark hair fell in ringlets about her flawless skin. Men would fight wars over the chance to feel this woman's body. Her full, shapely lips pulled back to reveal white, straight teeth.

"You know the drill. If you can catch me..."

And off she ran, like a gazelle evading a cheetah. Ok, maybe not a cheetah... maybe something closer to a hippo or really out of shape dog. Or Rosie O'Donnel.

For a week I chased that minx and never even got close to catching her. Oh I tried to be charming. Didn't work. I tried faking an injury to get her to come close enough to grab. Nothing. Finally I came to realize that the only way I was going to have a shot at having that body wrapped around this one was to actually catch her. But damn, she was fast, so I never could.

On the plus side, I did, in fact, lose 20 pounds. And I never felt hungry. Never felt excessively worn out. As a matter of fact, aside from a raging case of blueballs, I felt great! So it's no surprise that I ultimately called the company a third time to sign up for the Tier III program.

Questions asked. Answers given. Financial figures exchanged.

For the two days leading up to my third trainer I was beside myself with excitement. I mean, there's no way to top the last trainer I had and frankly, even the first was stunning. My mind seethed with the anticipation of what my third trainer had in store for me. And I was confident that with the training I'd had so far, there was no way she was going to outrun me without a jetpack. Yeah, I was not only going to get a workout now, but I was going to get poon, too!

Then came the ring of the doorbell.

I suddenly became aware of my body launching itself at the door, not caring to appear to be some poon-addled schoolboy.

I yanked the door open, fully prepared to launch myself into a full sprint if she tried to bolt suddenly. I was so amped up on sexual tension and Starbucks that I swear I could have caught the space shuttle if needs be.

The horror cracked me in the face like a hammer.

What stood before me was a lean, muscular, sinewy young man that looked like he could catch the space shuttle without even breaking a sweat. And just like his predecessors, he was naked.

And he had the biggest dick I'd ever ever even heard of. Not that I'm an expert on male genitalia mind you, but I swear he didn't use his hands to ring my doorbell a moment ago. Throw a tarp over it and boy scouts could have camped under there.

His thin, porn star mustache raised as he broke into a lecherous grin of his own. Then his words echoed in my horrified brain.

"Hello. I'm with 'Company X.' For the next three weeks I'll be your trainer. Now get moving, because if I catch you..."

-he leaned in for dramatic effect-

"... your ass is mine."

I'm on day twelve. I've been able to evade Sven the Wonder Schlong so far and I think I'm really losing some serious weight here since even my fillings are getting loose in my teeth, but... oh shit... he's caught his breath! Here he comes again!!!!

I gotta run!! There's no way I'm g......

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

It's Either Ascend to the Heavens, or Rot in Hell

So I took this new job, right? And the paychecks are pretty effing sweet. As are the people with whom I work. And I can't beat all the poon that goes along with being a Finance Rock Star. But can I just say that I'm already tired of the current project I'm on? I must have adult ADHD or something. Or perhaps it's just the feeling of being handed the lifeless corpse of a long dead and rotted project, with the instructions of "see what you can do with it. Oh, and I told everyone you'd have it ready by next week."

Anyway, in lieu,... leue?,... lou?,... in place of posting today, I give you something to occupy your time while I finish up. Don't forget to turn the volume up RRREEEEAAAALLLY high and click on Manic Mode. heh.

I may post later today; I may not. But it's the excitement of what I'll do next that keeps you coming back, isn't it? That, or the expectation of porn, which we all know is the REAL purpose of the internet, right?

Speaking of which, I remembered a smut story I wrote a while back that you might enjoy. I'll see if I can't be finding it when I get home and reprint it here, along with the back story. Or just the sweaty details, since I know that's all y'all* really care about.

*yes, I spoke Texan; that don't make me one.

- The Number of People Stunned by My Mediocrity