All right, so I was sitting there on the couch Sunday, minding my own beeswax when suddenly it dawns on me that someone is talking. Somewhere in the back of my mind an alarm bell went off, but a little person in a football uniform quickly hit the snooze button and the sense of impeding dread subsided. I continued to watch the football game on TV oblivious to the storm clouds gathering to my right. A while later, perhaps three plays or maybe after a slow-mo replay, I again became aware of some noises emanating from my right that might have been construed as human speech.

Female speech.

This time the little guy wasn’t quite as quick and the alarm set off a chain reaction of events within the confines of my football-hazed mind that allowed me to do what all men learn to do as a means of self-preservation at a very young age. I waited until there was a break in the flow of speech-noise to my right and made a non-committal grunt.

A little history about the noise I made, known to scholars throughout the ages as the ‘Male Grunt’. It is something that every man knows how to do almost instinctively, a kind of nasal humming noise made for the sole purpose of appeasing a talkative mate. Long ago, in simpler times when fire was new and exciting, and the wheel had not been invented and hence there was no garage for the male caveman to retreat to in times of great stress, the grunt came into being. Female Neanderthals would try to strike up conversation with the males during times of inactivity. Our ancient ancestors were not stupid though, and quickly learned that hunting a saber-tooth tiger while wearing a suit of raw meat was preferable to ignoring their females should they wish to talk.

The men knew this because some actually tried it.

They also knew that it didn’t matter whether the male wished to talk or not. Male cavemen were taught at a very young age that their role in these discussions was to simply listen and sympathize with the female. Whether the conversation was inane, juvenile or completely unimportant was not the point. Whether he thought she was right or wrong, or simply insane was irrelevant. Being able to follow the conversation, or comprehend the ‘logic’ behind it was not necessary. He was merely required to ‘support’ her in her time of need regardless of his own thoughts on the subject. He was not to ‘find a solution’ or ‘fix’ anything. He was merely to listen.

And so, the noncommittal male grunt was born.

Fire paled in survival importance next to the male grunt. Before the perfection of this grunt, there were many misunderstandings between male and female members of the tribes. Many battles were fought because one party ‘never listened’ or the other ‘never shut up’. These horrible battles and unfortunate deaths led to the creation of a new and vital social class within the tribes known as the marriage counselor. Most scholars agree that these marriage counselors probably invented the noncommittal grunt to help them survive the terminally boring sessions with their clients. It is highly probable then, that the males in these sessions saw the benefit of this new sound and adopted it for their own uses.

Ancient man was no dummy.

Anywaste, back to my story. HoBiscuit my girlfriend, momentarily satisfied by my masterful male grunt, continued to make her conversational noises and I continued to watch the game. All was calm and good in GeekLand. Then, just as my team was running an interception back for a touchdown, HoBiscuit my girlfriend jumps in front of me, blocked my view of the TV, and asked me a dangerous question.

Pop quiz hotshot.

When a woman asks, “Is watching that game more important than listening to me?” you should;

1. Say, “Would ya’ leave me alone I’m watching the game!”
2. Say, “Of course not, my love. I was listening to you but became distracted by your figure. Have you lost weight?”
3. Turn up the volume on the TV and eat another pork rind. Or,
4. Swallow a bullet and call it a day.

What do you do, hotshot?

What. Do. You. Do?

Sometimes, I surprise even myself with how clueless I am. Allow me to elaborate.

A few months ago while I was in the shower, I had an epiphany of monumental proportions. Now, I don’t know why most of my life-changing realizations occur while I’m blissfully washing the accumulated daily dingleberries from my posterior with my ‘sensitive skin’ llama-shaped loofa, but they always do. It’s almost as if the dark green mold growing in the folds of my shower curtain is hatching ideas, concepts and thought processes overnight only to spring them upon me while I’m blinded by shampoo.

Lather, rinse, epiphany, repeat.

On this particular day I did what every good father warns his sons to never do and dropped the soap in the shower. Quickly looking around to make sure that there were no other men present within the confines of my private bathroom, I reached down to pick up the soap from my scum and mildew covered bathtub floor. It was then that my life as I knew it came to an end. Right there, as I bent over in the shower with my soap-covered tushie exposed for the entire world to see, I came face to face with the ugly truth and found religion in an instant.

I had a belly.

Not just any belly, mind you, but a beer belly. In and of itself, there is nothing wrong with a beer belly and I have a quite a few friends who are exceedingly proud of theirs. They’ve spent years in training, going from dive bar to dive bar, in an effort to acquire the perfect, oblong, almost-round belly shape. Many have even foregone fun-filled weekends with friends in order to ‘train’ the entire weekend by watching bad TV and eating pork rinds. Some women I know even enjoy their man’s manly belly, rubbing the “little pooch” and referring to it as their “baby”. But it’s different for me, y’see I don’t drink. That’s right, I’ve never had a drink in my life. Ever. And suddenly, almost overnight, I had developed a beer belly.

Small for a belly since I had caught it in the embryonic stage, but a belly nonetheless.

I was at a loss for words. I stood aghast, incredulous and flabbergasted as the water ran over my back, across my sides and fell from my stomach as if my belly button was a spout. I’ve always been the skinny one, the guy who women look at and curse for having better curves than they do. I was the beanpole, the stickman, a scarecrow but suddenly I looked like a straw that had swallowed a pea. I poked my new discovery and it jiggled back as if it were laughing at me, mocking my confusion and horror and proving beyond a doubt that it was really there. And then, as if to push me over the edge of sanity, it did the unforgivable.

My stomach made the ‘I’m hungry’ noise.

That was the last straw. However this malignant growth had come to be attached to my body I was going to make sure that it died an agonizing, horrible death. I quickly went into the city and joined HoBiscuit my girlfriends gym. I chose her gym because it’s a large chain with many gyms in and around NY. And although there was no gym near my house, I figured I could always stay at her place when I needed to work out. It was also a great excuse to see her without her feeling like I was making a booty call.

Like I would ever do that.

Believing that I needed help in my war against the insidious evil of my sloth-like behavior, I decided to pay one of their ‘Fitness Trainers’ to torture me with daily workout routines that involved much sweat and pain on my part and lots of helpful suggestions on his part. I would meet with my Fitness Trainer, who I liked to call Lord Beelzebub, every other day at the gym closest to my girlfriend’s place in the city. It was a good working relationship. I would sweat and moan and bitch and cry and generally feel like a wimpy piece of wet noodle while he took my money and did all he could to make sure I left the gym as a wimpy wet noodle of a man.

Sadist is too weak a word for him.

So far, things have been going well. My belly is getting smaller and I’ve stopped using Lord Beelzebub’s services because he seemed far too happy when lifting weights forced my body to make loud, embarrassing sounds. I’m talking about whimpering and sobbing for mercy.

Sicko’s.

The only problem I have with the gym is that I have to travel over an hour to get there every time I want to work out. It’s become a hassle and a chore but I’ve been going as much as possible because hey, at least I get some boo-tay from HoBiscuit my girlfriend afterwards.

At least, I used to until I wrote that last line.

Anywaste, to get back onto the topic of me being a clueless moron, yesterday HoBiscuit my girlfriend sent me an email wherein she asked me a very important question. She was wondering if I knew that there was a gym not ten minutes walk from my house and that it even had indoor basketball courts?

Say WHAT?

Why, no my sweet, lovable HoBiscuit girlfriend, I did not. I did not know this piece of important information for I am a clueless moron whose inability to notice the world around him has marked him as a social outcast and community pariah for all time. Thank you for once again pointing out something so blatantly obvious that I should simply hang my head in shame and wear a sign around my neck proclaiming to the world that I am mentally unfit to be trusted to blink without assistance.

Needless to say, I went over to the gym yesterday and it’s big, clean and not crowded so I think I’ve found a new workout home. I’m going tonight for a kickboxing class and if that goes ok I’ll have to find some way to thank HoBiscuit my girlfriend in an appropriate and gentlemanly fashion.

Can anyone say Boo-TAY?

I really need a new computer. I bought this computer so long ago that I regularly receive phone calls from paleontologists who want to excavate the data buried deep within its boring beige exterior. How can I be Mighty when I can read War and Peace before my computer finishes booting? Every time I double-click, the hard drive spends the next couple of minutes protesting so loudly that the garbage men knocked on my door and asked me to keep the noise down. Just yesterday, while waiting for PhotoShop to load, I was able to make a life-sized llama out of duct tape, a few coat hangers and some old socks.

I sold it on ebay for $135.

Don’t get me wrong, I really love this computer and it’s served me well over the last few *coughfivecough* years, but I think it’s high-time I got me a new one. Especially since I make my living with it. There comes a time when even old reliable becomes just plain old and not worth upgrading. Why, I bet that if I hadn’t found that book of ‘Ancient Computer Resurrection Rites and Other Satanic Rituals of Evil’ it would have died long ago. So even though I enjoy painting ‘abort, retry, fail’ on my nekkid body while chanting the entire text to The Road Ahead in C++ and dancing to the windows startup song, I think it’s time I broke open the old wallet and bought a new computer. I’m really tired of the strange looks I get from my neighbors the next day. Especially when they shield the eyes of their children and whisper, “Don’t look at the crazy-man, Tommy. He’ll eat your fingers.”

In my defense, it was only one finger and the doctor says the operation was successful so it should heal fine. If the little brat had only let me see his limited edition, gold-foil Pikachu card… bastard.

Anywaste, I’m a busy little Geek today because I’m having a Monday Night Football gathering tonight and I have to get ready. I’m making Cream of Pumpkin Curry Soup, Filet De Tofu with Apricot Dijon Sauce and baklava for dessert. I’ve even made fondue for a snack during the game because nothing says ‘Guys Football Night’ like fondue.

Yeah. Right.

Actually, I’ll probably be making seven-digit pizza or, if I must cook, tacos. Hot, spicy, death-to-your-colon, my-anus-is-bleeding-lava tacos. I think my tacos are really good and a recent survey of prison inmates on death row agrees. According to the study, the inmates preferred eating my tacos to a lethal injection almost 2 to 1!

Wow. If that’s not a ringing endorsement, then I don’t know what is.