Adam and I have now escaped from our Fitness Farce memberships and, rather sensibly, joined the gym closest to our place, which is also a lot cheaper. At the new gym, the treadmills are stuck in the window like a shop display - I get to show off my arse to everyone absently wandering past outside. Tops.

It’s a whole lot better than the last gym. They gave me a free personal trainer session too - as I’m relatively clueless on using weights machines, I got the guy to work out a weights routine for me. Turns out the stretching routines after using each machine are more complicated than the machines themselves. Fortunately, he was kind enough to draw me little diagrams of stick-figure men in a number of enthusiastic stretching poses.

I’ll be buggered if I know what they all mean, though. The first one looks like a regular stick figure, to which a year 8 student has cobbled on an oversized cock. (I think it’s actually supposed to mean I stretch my arms down or something, god knows what). Actually, it probably is stretching my arms down, as the next diagram features the dick grafted just above my arse, so I’m assuming that means I have to stretch my hands behind my back. Whilst I fend off porn studio deals featuring the world’s first self-fucking man.

The next diagram appears to be some sort of curious giraffe (that said, there’s a few roidmunchers at this new gym who take on that appearance). The next, another penis kinda diagram.

After that, I’m having sex on the ground with a giant X, and then with a giant L. Seriously, I have no goddamn idea what these stretches are anymore… not even which machines I’m supposed to use them in conjunction with. It’s like some sort of oddball, sexy, self-fucking jiggly giant-dick Steps routine which didn’t quite make the cut.

Of course, I did my best to randomly stretch and squirm and writhe after submitting myself to each machine. My body felt decidedly battered by the weekend, so I figured I may as well batter my eardrums as well, and went along to the Team Sleep gig. Brisbane and Melbourne, you still have a chance to see them play tomorrow night and Wednesday night respectively. They’re heartily Jeb recommended (even if just to see how big Chino’s jugs are nowadays). Kudos to the crowd for the lack of Deftones shirts, but a Sunday late night gig, what the fuck? I’ve never even been to such a thing.

Still, it was all worth it just to hear someone in the crowd utter the following phrase after the gig:

The fucking Testeagles are still around? ….FUCK. ME.

(Seriously. They are!)

This entry was posted on Monday, June 27th, 2005 at 9:01 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.