Fucking Assholes #4
Dir: Axel Braun
I saw the gym Nazi again today. I smiled and waved hello as he jogged on the treadmill. It drove him to run faster. I giggled like a little girl. Like dumbbells, water fountains, and exercise bikes, one thing all gyms have in common is gym Nazis. Some gyms have more than others, depending on the clientele. I imagine that the more neckless ogres you see, the higher the chance that your gym is overrun with gym Nazis: a musclebound kook that is way too into working out. They typically grunt and yell extremely loud as they do their reps to let everyone know that they are animals...animals that can lift anything! The last gym I belonged to was a haven for Cro-Magnon men, so I quit and this past Christmas I got myself a membership to a luxurious, relaxed, family gym. I've been going for two hours a day for a month now and hadn't seen one gym Nazi yet; but I knew it was only a matter of time. Last week he found me. With my ass up in the air. A perfect target. I was on one of those leg press things where you're seated with your legs pointed toward the ceiling like a frickin' astronaut. I had just finished my second set and was taking a breather before doing my third. That's when I heard it: yelling, directed at me, "That's not a couch! Do a set, then get off! Don't just sit there!" He was a monster, covered in hair and bad tattoos of disproportionate tigers and the Tasmanian Devil. He was 45 if he was a day, his veins were trying desperately to push their way out of his skin, and he was one angry man. But I was feeling rather sassy that morning. I'd had my two cups of coffee and had already gone through my morning mental exercises of breaking down and critiquing the other patrons' shortcomings (how I missed him, I'm not sure). I was good and ready for a little cat and mouse. So as the last word left his lips, I smiled big and wide, paused, then lifted my right earphone off my head and said, "Excuse me?" He repeated, verbatim, "That's not a couch! Do a set, then get off! Don't just sit there!" This time it was slightly louder and the volume was affecting his face. It seemed to be making it redder. I kept with the dumb, blank look in my eyes and the oblivious smile on my face as I removed my other earphone and again asked, "I'm sorry, what did you say?" He lost it. He just fucking lost it. Screaming now, with sweat flying off his body and fists clenched, he repeated, "THAT'S NOT A COUCH! DO A SET THEN GET OFF! DON'T JUST SIT THERE!" People were watching this scene now. I laughed at his tomato face. I asked him, in the most smug, condescending, calm, monotone, "Who talks like that, gym Nazi? I mean, really?" Have you ever seen a shark's eyes when they smell blood and are about to attack? When they blacken over? That happened to this guy. All the wiring in his swollen head got fried, and he couldn't respond. All that came out of him was, "Wha-wha-uh-uh-uhrrr..." So I continued, "There's an entire gym full of empty toys for you. Why don't you go play with some of that shit and leave me the fuck alone? I'll get off when I'm good and ready, and right now I'm really enjoying my time on the couch thinking about Madagascar." With that I sat back, put my headphones back on, and quickly stuck out my tongue. He wanted to kill me. I mean really clobber me, like pull my arms off and beat me over the head with them. But what could he do? We were surrounded by old ladies and overweight garbage men who don't like people that are in better shape then them. We would have lynched his Gold's Gym-ass. He just stood there staring for a moment then stormed off, probably to go punch some innocent onlookers. I've seen him three times since and I make sure I always wave and smile. Partially for my own amusement but mostly to remind him that I own him.
Dir: Joe Gallant
Have I ever told you about this guy Joe Gallant? He owns and directs his own line of porn, called Black Mirror Productions, which is easily the greatest porn ever made. You know me, I don't like writing about porn. It's pointless. It's a dick in a hole, what am I suppose to write that's going to change your perception of a cock going in an ass? Nothing. So I try and avoid the topic entirely in this column, but sometimes I'll get a film so amazing that I feel compelled to tell you all about it and make sure that you go buy it and watch it and love it and play it at dinner parties and laugh while you do coke off back issues of Mad Magazine and drink amaretto and vodka and play 18th Century Victorian dress-up. Potty Mouth is such a film. If by chance you're illiterate and can't read the cover and/or blind and can't see what the cover girl is hiding being her back, this is an enema video start to quit. Did your parents ever take you to Disney World when you were six? Remember thinking, "I love this place. I could see myself living here forever"? That's how I felt after watching Potty Mouth. It's really dirty, vile shit. Literally, shit is spraying everywhere from these girls' poocanos. It's not like they pre-enema to clean themselves out. No, a shit chunk to Joe Gallant is the equivalent to a money shot. The back cover even boasts, "Geysers of lust fill the screen. No one is safe from their torrid buttblasts!" That's fucking poetry. And like a true poet, Joe Gallant paints a beautiful picture of whoring with every film he makes. Did I ever tell you about Bongwater Butt Babes? Fuck. You need that one, too. OK, get this: girls use an enema and fill their asses with water, then use a specially-made, bottomless bong and smoke weed out of each other's asses. Sometimes they use a long tube and smoke out of their own asses! It's as if God was tired of watching all the same old boring porn being made and he reached down from heaven and touched Joe Gallant and said, "My son, I send you into the world to show my flock a new way, to show them the true path. I want you to teach them that it is possible to smoke weed out of your ass." And Joe, being the martyr that he is, said, "Lord, you are my light and I will do as you command." You think I'm kidding? Black Mirror DVDs carry a message of biblical proportions. Granted, Joe Gallant didn't die on a cross for our sins but at the end of Potty Mouth he gives a girl an enema and then puts his mouth up to her ass and lets her spray her feces-filled milkshake right down his throat. I mean, that's pretty much the same thing, right?