I did not want to get up and go to the gym this morning. Thank you, Jesus, for giving me the strength to get out of bed.
Normally, I like to lift and then finish my workout by running on the treadmill.
There I was, four minutes into my run, watching reading the subtitles on an episode of “Full House,” when my peripheral vision catches someone look at me. I look back. It was a girl. Full make-up. Teased out hair. Yoga pants at least two sizes too small. Stretching her quadriceps while standing on one side of the treadmill AS THE TREADMILL IS RUNNING. Safe. Real safe.
We make eye contact. I smile. She gives me the up-down. I knew, at that point, that this was something I needed to stick around to see.
She puts her other leg down and slowly (and I mean SLOWLY) bends over, popping her booty. I cannot believe those yoga pants didn’t split right then and there. To one side. Now, to the other side. Up. Slowly back down. Girl, what the hell are you doing? This is a piece of exercise equipment, not a pole.
Ok, now it’s time to start walking. REALLY SLOWLY. Swaying her hips back and forth, back and forth. I was starting to feel seasick.
Ok, now it’s time to slow the treadmill down even more (Who knew treadmills had a turtle-mode built in?) and start doing lunges. Lunge. Lunge. Lunge. Turn to the side. Side lunge. Side lunge. Side lunge.
Are you kidding me? You seriously spend 65$ a month to do this? You need to be slapped with a cleansing wipe:
- To knock some sense into your ego-driven head.
- To remove some of that nasty make-up. This is not America’s Next Top Model. You need to stop.
Part of me thinks that she was doing this to try to impress me. (You know… with the whole “elevator eye” situation and all.) Then, another part of me tells me that I’m being disgustingly narcissistic. It’s just so hard not to make those connections because this joker was actin’ such a big fool… and the only other person within the vicinity was a middle-aged woman who looked like she was about to need some serious life support. It’s highly unlikely Miss America went full on sexy-mode for Mrs. Doubtfire.
Anyway, the joke is on me. I was the one that ended up looking like I had a psychiatric disorder. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t wipe the huge grin off of my face. No, it was not a funny episode of “Full House.” In fact, DJ and Stephanie were worried their deceased mother would be upset that their dad (Danny) was dating other women. (Someone give me a tissue!) No. I was smiling because this little trick was being so completely ridiculous.
Anyway, I just can’t imagine what kind of party would have been going on in my pants if I was one of those steroid-enhanced bros whose mating call is best described as a constipated grunt. How they don’t realize their neck has slowly transformed into a tree trunk is beyond me.
I’m on winter break right now, which means I need to cram in as many of my interesting friends who have actual lives as possible within a matter of two weeks.
I used to work with a girl at Kohl’s department store. She was a “lead” and had authority over me, but since I was the only one who laughed when she was being a jerkface to other people, she basically took me under her wing.
I knew that I liked her after she told one employee that she was pregnant just to see how far it would get. Spreading fake rumors about yourself is always an amusing game to play.
Anyway, I am probably the most un-cultured individual ever and I know none of the secret treasures about the city I grew up in. What a disgrace. I told her she was making a mistake by forcing me to choose the restaurant, which is when she suggested “The Gingerbread House” - a little mom and pop restaurant I passed everyday on my commute to college.
The text I responded with:
They have actual food? I thought it was just a bakery/kitchen utensil store that middle-aged women shopped at for Christmas presents for their mother-in-laws.
Anyway, I got dressed in some dark slim fit jeans and a blue sweater (obviously looking as fly as I usually do). As I walked into the kitchen, my dad decided to enlighten me with his vast pool of knowledge (that he attains by watching the Dr. Oz show.)
Tata: “You know, people who wear such tight pants… mostly women… they have problems with their legs.”
Was that absolutely necessary? Mostly women. Little does he care, but I have a small head. If I wear loose fitting jeans they will make me look like this guy from “Beetlejuice.”
Plus, he needs to recognize the “A” I got on the exam I took in anatomy right before break, which included everything from the waist down.
(Sidenote: Do you have any idea how awkward it is studying the pelvic region while at your parent’s house? I was paranoid the entire time thinking somebody would walk in on me staring at a diagram of some man/woman’s junk. People are quick to judge and I have come way too far for anybody to start thinking that I’m the mayor of PervertVille.)
Two can play at that game.
Me: “Yes, I know. It’s called ‘Tight Pant Syndrome.’ The pants people wear are so tight that they pinch the lateral femoral cutaneous nerve; thus, causing tingling and numbness down the side of the thigh. It’s a very uncomfortable situation that I, for one, am not familiar with.”
He, then, decided to quietly eat his apple in the other room.
Was it his way of telling me he thought I was wearing “girl” pants? I don’t know. I bought them from the men’s section. What does he want from me? I happen to think that they look good… especially in the keester region. Plus, they are much warmer than looser fitting jeans. When they’re loose, they catch the draft and I’ll tell you one thing… My legs weren’t designed for a breeze especially in these cold winter months when the breeze turns into an arctic chill that would make a penguin cold.
By the way, if anybody cares, the restaurant was horrible. The joint was filled with snotty waitresses, cramped tables, bakery that most likely was served with shots of insulin, and pizza… Who would have thought they only sell pizza at a place called “The Gingerbread House?” I’m even moderately tempted to download the Yelp app just so I can spread the truth to unsuspecting victims, such as I once was.
I started hearing a sound of water rushing through pipes in the past couple days.
Thinking nothing of it, I continued to study like a zombie… until it started getting louder last night.
I called my mom. She told me not to worry about it.
She handed the phone to my dad. He first asked me what I ate for dinner. He then told me that if I don’t see any water anywhere, I shouldn’t worry about it.
Since I live in a three story complex, I thought the worst and figured someone maybe slipped, fell, and cracked their head while in the shower. Thus, leaving the water running with an unconscious body on the floor. (So appropriate for Halloween.)
Today, as I was folding clothes in my bedroom, I heard a splash of water upstairs. I crept closer to the sound like I was a member of the Scooby Doo gang and all of a sudden water started POURING out of the light fixture in my bathroom.
Panic mode.
My initial reaction? Call my mom and yell at her for not believing me.
After I was done with that, I ran over to my neighbor (God bless her sweet soul) and started incoherently explaining that it was raining in my bathroom. Somehow she understood my nonsense and gave me the number to the plumber.
This plumber doesn’t work on Sunday, but I left a message anyway.
I ran up to both floors above me to knock on the doors and see if someone was home. No answer.
With steam left to blow, I called my mom back. She told me to call the non-emergent police line, in which the lady said she would send someone right over.
After I got off the line with the police, the plumber called me back. He told me he was going to charge ME for coming to fix the people upstairs. Is he for real?
As I was on the line with the plumber, the man living in the condo above me came down and I gave the phone to him.
Since I have well developed ear-hustling skills, I overheard that the man’s toilet has been clogged for days and plunging it has not be working. Well, hmm…maybe you should just keep trying to plunge it then. (Make sure you read that last sentence with a sarcastic tone.)
The only thought going through my head, “Poop water is spilling onto my bathroom floor.”
As he hung up the phone (he was on my cell phone, by the way), I apologized for calling the police and told him that I would call them back to tell them we were resolving the issue.
As I get the same girl on the line, I hear a pounding on my door. Who’s there? Two big, burly men - one of which was holding a huge ax.
Thinking I was in a real-life horror movie and was going to be the first to die, I told the police lady on the phone that I called her back because the dude living above me is alive and well and that she didn’t need to send anybody. She responded with, “They should already be there.”
Phew. Not an ax-murderer… Just a creepy firefighter.
I hung up with her and told the two guys standing at my door that I figured they were bored on this lazy Sunday, so I wanted to liven it up a little for them. Unamused, they walked away (and I could have sworn that man dragged his ax along the wall as he walked.)
Anyway, I still hear the water sound, yet the guy above me said their toilet finally flushed.
So, now, I have a green bucket full of poop-water sitting on the floor of my bathroom. I’m afraid to move it just in case the soupy poopies start to pour again and the only thing I can’t help but ponder is what in the world that guy ate to clog a toilet for 5 days straight.
Today in my anatomy lab, we spent time dissecting the back of the hand. One of the muscles that we needed to identify was called the “extensor indices.” (Scroll down for a picture.)
Our model had two tendons coming from the same muscle: one that went to the index finger and one that went to the middle finger.
Confused by this, our group called one of the Jedi masters anatomy professors over to our table. We were told that the extensor indicis simply split into two tendons, which is supposedly a fairly common occurrence since there can be so much variation in the way that tissues and muscle form. (Whatever. That answer is not going to help when I’m taking the practical.)
Anyway, let me get to the interesting part… the part that I decided to open my mouth, of course.
I asked the professor,
“So, does this mean that she had like… an extra ability? Sort of like a super power? That would have been so cool! If I had a super power, I would want to be able to fly.”
Other than completely making a fool out of myself, the professor seemed to throughly enjoy my comment. In fact, he joined in the fun and said something about our model being able to speak Italian since the extra tendon went to the middle finger. (Too bad I didn’t understand his joke. Isn’t the whole “middle finger” gesture an American thing?)
Moral of the story is: Silence is golden, but shouting is fun. (You can all thank the Spice Girls for that brilliance.) Why go through life as a Stonewall Jackson? Crack a smile, why don’t cha? You’ll feel much better. Plus, you are probably way more attractive when you smile anyway. (Add a big fan to achieve wind blown hair for dramatic effect.)
Quick:
Origin: Posterior surface of the interosseous membrane and ulna
Insertion: Joins the extensor digitorum tendon to the index finger
Action: Extends the index finger (carpometacarpal joint, proximal interphalangeal joint, and distal interphalangeal joint) except for when the index finger extends more than 180 degrees. Then, the extensor indicis is unable to overcome the passive resistance of the flexor muscles, in which the proximal and distal interphalangeal joints will flex while the carpometacarpal joint extends past 180 degrees. Assists in extending the wrist.
Innervation: Radial nerve
(I come out of my room with a white pillow case on my head.)
Me: Booo I’m a ghoooost.
Mama: (Uncontrollable laughter) IT DOESN’T EVEN FIT OVER YOUR SHOULDERS HAHAHA
(Tata runs in the room to partake in the commotion.)
Me: I know! My shoulders are now huge from working out!
Tata: You should have seen the man we saw today! He was a moose!
Brother: Yeah his bicep was as big as your &$@#%+ chest!!!
(Awkward silence)
Me: Ok well I’m going back to finish making my bed!
Freshman dance tomorrow. Question is: Do I wear the sequin vest… with matching tie? (Taken with Instagram)
Taken with Instagram
I’m sure most people are familiar with how easily I am able to make a scene out of any situation… you know, with the dramatics and all.
Well, why should professional school change anything?
For our quiz, we are required to leave all of our belongings in the lockers in the hallway outside of the testing center. With 209 students, mass chaos breaks loose.
I have not gotten a doctor to write a prescription for xanax darts yet, so my social anxiety is full blown at this point. (You know, like the tranquilizers they use to sedate wild beasts in the jungle? Yeah, those might work.)
Quiz time on Tuesday comes around and I’m standing with three other people when I suddenly realize that it was the birthday of the girl standing to my left.
Taking this opportunity to make my musical debut, I started singing.
“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday toooo youuu….”
I paused while she started thanking me for the wishes, but since when have you known me to cut a performance short?
Time for the big finish…
With the third “Happy Birthday” line, I flail my arms up in the air. Unfortunately, the girl to my right was holding a cup of coffee.
Yup.
The coffee cup flies, hits the lockers, then falls to the ground. Coffee is now all over the floor with enough people around to fill a small stadium… or a large swimming pool… filled with coffee. In addition, a man (who I will refer to as Yankee Doodle Dandy for our purposes) starts screaming.
“MY EYE! MY EYE!!”
Commence claustrophobic panic attack.
“AHHHHHH! I’M SO SORRY, I’M SO SORRY! ARE YOU OK? SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT! I NEED PAPER TOWEL! I’M SO SORRY, I’M SOOOOOO SORRRY!!!!”
Disregarding the fact that I’m standing in line for a quiz, I take off running to the closest bathroom to grab paper towel. Guess how many I grab…
I sprint back to the scene of the crime with 2 paper towels.
Now, these weren’t no “Bounty - Quicker Picker Uppers.” No. They were the most nonabsorbent paper towels ever created in the history of paper towels. The Brawny man was probably punching holes in steel walls while watching this go down.
As I’m kneeling on the floor, still apologizing for my flailing arms, I realize that instead of soaking up the spilled coffee, I’m actually just spreading it across the floor. You’d think with all of the tuition I pay, the school could at least provide useful paper towels in case of situations like this.
I hand the girl back her coffee and take off to throw the coffee-drenched paper towels away.
“NIKO! Why would I want this anymore?!”
I run back, grab the coffee, and take off again to discard the evidence.
After freaking out, I returned and continued to apologize - especially to Yankee.
“Aw man, it’s cool. I was just kidding.”
…
How do I respond to that?
I slowly returned to my baseline of “basket case” and noticed that the people around me completely acted like nothing ever happened.
Are you kidding me?! Who are these people?! If my old friends were there, they would have been on the floor, banging on the lockers, begging me to stop with the comedy act.
No. I was surrounded by a group of Stonewall Jacksons.
Tough crowd.
I had my second Osteopathic Manipulative Medicine (OMM) lecture today. For those who don’t know, it’s a class designed to teach students how to palpate and look for asymmetries in the body, thus, finding somatic dysfunction… lots of big words. (Basically, I’ve just been feeling up my partner and nodding like I understand.)
Anyway, the instructor needed a person to use as a demonstration for the arm palpations. I was in the front of the class trying to be the teacher’s pet like always, when he asked me to join him on the mini-stage… obviously where I belong.
(Mission accomplished.)
After the arm section was done, he kept me for the demonstration of the abdomen.
I lie down, he pulls up my shirt, and then starts feeling up my rock hard abs pushing on my abdominal wall while examining the different tissue layers. (What I understood is that you basically need to treat your patient’s internal abdominal organs like they are one of those stress-relief balls. You have to push hard or you’re not going to feel the inflamed gall-bladder that will make the patient cringe in pain when you touch it.)
The instructor gets to my lower right quadrant and says,
“See right there… I heard a gurgle, which means that this guy probably hasn’t had a bowel movement yet today.”
Umm….
Well…
What to even say?
In retrospect, this was actually quite hilarious for everyone else that didn’t have to be publicly humiliated. Ironically, though, out of the entire time I spent being the class guinea pig, I think I probably felt the most comfortable during that defining moment.
Forget about my Adonis-like arms with the rippling muscles and bulging veins…
What really makes me feel special is the fact that my intestines can mimic sounds made by a herd of cows moving across a pasture.
I bet this will do wonders for my already impressive reputation…
My first batch of palacinke :) (Taken with instagram)
A police man stopped me on my way to the gym this morning.
There is a stop light located about a block away from the gym. As I approached it, the light turned yellow. I had two choices: slam on my brakes or speed up and make it through the light. With little regard to the fact that there was NOBODY on the road at 3:00 AM, I pressed the gas a little just to get through.
While I was in the middle of the intersection, I noticed that the light turned from yellow to red. Then, I noticed a vehicle started following me down the road and into the parking lot of the gym.
As I was choosing a space to park my car, the vehicle turned on its lights and started a strobe light party in the middle of the parking lot.
In my mind: “Shoot! What do I do?! I’ve never been stopped by the cops. I’m going to slammer. My baba is probably going to see me on ‘Cops’ next week! Shoot, shoot, shoot. Do I turn my car off? Do I turn my lights off? Do I take my seat belt off? My license is in the back seat - do I turn around and reach for it? No! He’s going to think I’m pulling out a pistol.”
Officer Big-Shot walks up to my window, introduces himself, and asks me if I know why he pulled me over.
Me: “Well, I mean.. I know I wasn’t speeding.. did it have something to do with the fact that the light turned from yellow to red while I was in the middle of the intersection back there?”
Officer: “It was red.”
Me: “Really??? Shoooot. Maybe my mama was right! Maybe I DO need to make an appointment with the eye doctor!”
Officer: *Unamused* “License.”
The stress of being a criminal overwhelmed me so extensively that I wasn’t thinking clearly.
I whipped around to my back seat like I was Justin Timberlake and I only had four minutes to save the world. In retrospect, this wasn’t a good idea. The popo nearly blinded me with his EXTREMELY high-voltage flashlight that he was shining on me as I was turned around looking for my wallet in my backpack.
(Don’t get me wrong. I like the spotlight, but let’s be honest. Just the thought of the clank would kick any normal, law-abiding citizen into an anxiety induced panic attack.)
I realized he thought I was reaching for a weapon, which caused the perspiration to begin. The hot mess I was, I found my license and slowly turned around and handed him my card.
Officer Big-Shot into his big-shot radio: “Validate Ni-koh… la?”
Voice on the radio: “Validated”
Officer: “Registration?”
*Commence the incessant chatter*
Me: “OH! I just got my new card in the mail! Let me get that for you! I almost forgot to bring that with me, but it’s a good thing that I did! I didn’t even punch it out of the little white paper yet, so I still have both cards with me…”
(Just so we’re clear, I handed him my insurance card… NOT the registration for my car.)
Officer: “So, I’m going to let you off with a warning.”
Me: “Oh thank you so much officer, I really am a good driver. I’ve been driving for eight years and have never had a problem! I don’t know what my issue was this morning!”
Officer: “So… are you going to the gym?”
Me: *Confused* “Uhh… yes?”
Officer: “Alright, then… have a good work out.”
Oh NO he didn’t! Are you kidding me? I didn’t do anything wrong, yet he acted like he did me a favor by giving me a warning. Shoot, I did him a favor! Just because he was having a boring night didn’t mean that he needed to take his poor life choices out on me!
I understand that he needs to enforce the law and everything, but WHAT LAW NEEDS TO BE ENFORCED IF I’M ALREADY ENFORCING IT MYSELF?!
The light was yellow when I entered the intersection, yet turned red while I was in the middle. What is illegal about that? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Do you know how many people I see actually run red lights? Do you know how many people I see driving at least 20 miles per hour over the speed limit? Do you know how many people I see perform illegal u-turns?
… and I’m the one to get caught. I’m the most careful driver I know!
Well, the least of my worries is over. Now, the problem is figuring out how to never let my tata find out that this happened.
Wish me luck…
What do we do at work? Nothing productive.
My co-worker called down and asked me if we had any character stickers for children in our department. As inquisitive as I am, I asked for her motive. She told me that her life was a fruitful fountain of fortune and wanted to give them out to people.
(Is it just me, or does that remind of you Valentine’s Day in like… 2nd grade? Girl, don’t nobody deserve a sticker up there…)
Unfortunately, we didn’t have any in our department, so I told her I could draw some, which was a joke. She didn’t think it was funny. In fact, she thought it was the best idea since Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.
On the blank labels she sent me, I drew:
- A lion with a crown and wrote, “You’re ferocious!”
- A brick house with the caption (I bet you can’t guess…), “You’re a brick house!”
- A bird’s nest on a tree branch with three eggs in it that read, “You’re egg-cellent!”
I was running low on creativity and asked for suggestions from my co-workers. Seal Boy spoke up and told me to draw some seagulls on a beach. (Of course… like I didn’t see that one coming. Very fitting for him and his seal adventures, no?)
I said, “… Oh yeah, and what? Write ‘You’re a beach!’ on it??? That’s not nice!”
Another one of my co-workers (the devious, yet absolutely hilarious one) thought it was brilliant and pressured me into drawing the beach sticker. What can I say? I’m easily persuaded.
(Fast forward two hours to when I went up for my annual review.)
I walk into my supervisor’s office and what do I see on her desk?
THE STICKER THAT READS, “WHAT A BEACH!”
Are you kidding me? Great. She found it, saw that I wasn’t doing appropriate things, and is now going to fire me for insubordination. Being the skilled actor that I am, however, I was able to act completely unaware of the deadly situation at hand.
We went through the entire review with no mention of the sticker. Then, the co-worker that asked me to draw the stickers called my zone-phone:
“Sally (not her actual name), I can’t talk now. I’m having my review.”
After I hung up, my supervisor jumped in her chair like a giddy school girl on a pogo stick:
Supervisor: “Oh! Look what Sally gave me earlier!!!”
This is where I inserted my signature, “OoooOOOoohhh.” It’s a response that makes people think that I’m interested, when, in reality, I couldn’t care less… or in this case, trying to hide the fact that I was actually the culprit and she caught me red handed.
Supervisor: “Yes! She told me that you drew it and I just thought it was absolutely hilarious! I just had to have it!”
….
Seriously?
Only me. Why on earth do these things only happen to me!?
(Based on a true story.)
There is a guy and we’re going to refer to him as “Moose.” (I have no idea what his name is, but “Moose” seems quite fitting.)
Now, Moose is big… very big… but severely lacking in the “Toned Muscle” department. Moose has back-ne, which leads me to think he uses steroids (which obviously aren’t helping much). Moose, also, could benefit from some Rogaine for his Justin Bieber-esque hair-do. Not to mention the purple shirt that he wears every day, which, by the way, is against gym regulations. Cut-off shirts are only supposed to be 2-3 inches from the armpit, yet Moose’s arm holes extend deep enough to put his unmentionables on display.
Anyway, Moose is the type of person I try to avoid at the gym for obvious reasons, so without further ado, here are my tips for how to avoid being asked to spot fellow gym-goers.
Tip 1: AVOID EYE CONTACT.
This usually works, but some people just weren’t given the gift of reading body language. (Cue Jesse McCartney)
Tip 2: ACT DUMB.
Moose: “Yo man, spot?”
Me: “Spot?! Where? I just washed this shirt yesterday!”
(In my defense, I don’t speak caveman. Speak to me using full sentences, why don’t you?)
Tip 3: ASK STUPID QUESTIONS.
Moose: “No no, can you spot me while I lift?”
Me: “Sure, I can help. What do I need to do?”
Moose: “Thanks, bro! All you need to do is lift the bar because my triceps are really starting to give out.”
Me: “So would you like me to use my fingers or my hands to lift the bar?”
Moose: “I said my triceps.”
Tip 4: THROW IN SOME RUDE, CONDESCENDING ATTITUDE.
Me: “I heard what you said. I asked if I should use my fingers or my hands to lift the bar. Some people don’t use obscene amounts of weight and only prefer a light tap of the finger to assist in lifting the bar.”
Tip 5: ALLOW THE PERSON’S LIFE TO FLASH BEFORE THEIR EYES.
Since I felt awkward about the fact that my manlies were so close to Moose’s face, I tried to keep a comfortable distance while paying little attention to what was occurring below eye level.
Moose: “Oh no. Oooh no! It’s going down, it’s going down!”
With my horrible response time and lack of attention, I didn’t realize that Moose’s muscles gave out on him and the bar was slowly crushing him underneath it. Instead, I was preoccupied in NikoLand:
There was a killer whale swimming in the Pacific ocean while working on his acrobatic routine for his Sea World audition. A pirate ship just happened to be looking for buried treasure… in the middle of the ocean. The whale attempted his triple sow cow (Michelle Kwan was his idol) and accidentally landed on top of the pirate ship, which consequently started sinking. The captain of the ship, Leonardo DiCaprio, started screaming “It’s going down! It’s going down!” which is where I responded with “Aaaah! Abandon ship! ABANDON SHIP!!!”
In my head, I thought it was hilarious. Very detailed scenes constructed with vivid colors and dramatic acting always proves to be quality entertainment. Outside of my head, Moose was still screaming at me.
Once I realized that I was earning the title as “Worst Spotter Ever,” I tried to grab the bar. Unfortunately, I was still so far away from Moose because of the whole awkward groin-to-face action. Thus, I stepped closer to grab hold of the bar, which put my body directly over Moose’s face… and when I say my “body,” I specifically mean my private area. Because of this position, the air that he was exhaling had no where to go other than up into my shirt. Go ahead. Picture it: Me trying to lift a gazillion ton bar while my shirt balloons out with another man’s carbon dioxide.
So weird… and creepy. I just threw up in my mouth a little bit…
How does Moose respond?
“Whoa, bro, that almost killed me.”
Excuse me? I ain’t your bro, first of all. Second of all, if you weren’t pretending to be the world’s strongest man, you wouldn’t have ever had that problem. Don’t blame me for the fact that you almost had a 245 pound bar impale you in the chest.
My response:
“Yeah, but I saved you. Remember that.”
Thinking that I served my time, I began to walk away.
“Hey! So do you always come here at night.”
Tip 6: AVOID CONVERSATION AND IF THAT IS NOT AN OPTION, GIVE SHORT REPLIES.
Me: “I never come at night.”
Moose: “… But you’re here now.”
Me: “Yeah, and it’s 5 o’clock in the morning.”
Moose: “Oh, this is night for me. Anyway, thanks… I wish they would have a safety catch for these bench presses.”
Me: “That’s what that second hook is for…”
Moose: “I guess… so what kind of workout routine do you follow?”
Me: “Whatever I feel like for that day.”
Tip 7: CUT THEIR STATEMENTS SHORT
Moose: “Oh, co…”
Me: “Anyway, I’m off to work! Good luck with your triceps!”
Tip 8: RUN.
Disclaimer: Although these tips would work for any other individual, Moose is obviously not intelligent enough to read all of the verbal and physical signs that say “LEAVE ME ALONE.” I cannot guarantee that these suggestions will work for every scenario, in which case, if you ever see Moose, SKIP DIRECTLY TO STEP 8.
YES PLEASE.
