As a seasoned traveler, I enjoy stumbling on locales that seem immune from the consequences of time. It could be a town containing an actual drive-in movie venue. Or a sweets establishment that all the locals refer to as the “soda fountain.” Or a bar with a quarter- fed jukebox and beers that hover…
Other sounds I’ve been privy to while playing, and which I hope Foresight avoids in its next software upgrade, include a golf ball hitting a
condominium roof, bouncing through a gravel parking lot and colliding with a low-flying bird. Thankfully for the bird population, I’ve only produced that sound once.
I do see myself using the newly approved skunk, garlic and onion emojis, as all three will come in handy when I am reminding my younger daughter, via text, to clean her room. I see no purpose for the auto rickshaw, seeing that Uber and Lyft drivers are usually hovering near me at all times and can provide transportation faster than a guy pedaling a bike strapped to a bench.
The buses in my high school daughter’s district rolled on the day before the mercury plummeted to levels not
seen since the second hour of “The Revenant” with Leonardo DiCaprio.
Nobody wants to hear about the two-hour delay to Austin, the de-icing truck malfunction in Milwaukee or the passenger with nonexistent hygiene aboard your flight to San Francisco that left you so traumatized, you DEMAND a refund. Or at least 50,000 frequent airline points that can be redeemed during blackout periods.
Only subzero temperatures and mountains of snow outside my garage could prompt me to shuffle through my on-screen programming guide, stumble across a show starring a Japanese millennial who dubs herself a “tidying expert” and think, “Hey, THIS looks interesting.”
I have no aspirations to run for political office, but should my ambitions change I have already formulated a list of promises I will make to the American public when it comes to social media usage. I promise to hire a professional proofreader to review my tweets before I hit “send.” This, in contrast…
My body is a flabby, fleshy mass of Christmas fudge. My blood type is no longer Type B-negative; instead, it is Cheese-positive. If I cut my finger, onion dip would squirt out prodigious quantities. Ladies, how do you like me now?
The “ruining of the physique” as I call it, occurs every December, despite my annual pledge to walk away from all snacks mozzarella-related and be the lone party guest who actually consumes the raw cauliflower and broccoli stalks, sans queso. While friends and relatives gorge themselves on food that, due to its small size, can be easily piled on plates in large quantities, I would be the rational party attendee, placing a single naked cracker on my plate, taking minute bites as if I were a newborn rabbit nibbling on a baby carrot.
Didn’t happen. Which is why I need … a pill.
Oh, you were thinking the previous sentence should contain the phrase “extreme diet”? “Strict exercise regimen”? “Barbed wire around the cheese aisle in my local grocery store”? Nah, not necessary. Not when there’s AGELESS MALE MAX.
Every year, post-Christmas, my car radio airwaves and my web browser seem to be flooded with advertisements for these wonder guy pills that are so amazing, so awesome, so full of testosterone-producing whatever, that health clubs and home gyms need not exist. Take one a day, the ads promise, and my stomach will be so taut, one could bounce a cheese ball off it. The Ageless Male Max (yes, it’s a real product) ad filled my ears as I was driving to, ironically, my health club, hoping to burn the caloric equivalent in one piece of toffee.
I returned home after an hour of, barely, lifting weights, googled “Ageless Male Max,” and was immediately directed to a site featuring a shirtless man who looked as if he was trying to sprint off my computer screen. The site featured an image of an Ageless Male Max bottle and was full of open-ended, mysterious phrases like “FROM THE NUMBER ONE BEST SELLER!” though the site failed to disclose the number one best seller’s identity or how Ageless Male Max derived from it. Furthermore, the pill promised to provide KSM-66, “a full-spectrum extract of the natural Ashwagandha root.”
Testimonials from three hunky dudes praised the pill’s merits, even though all were identified only by their first names and last initials, making it impossible to track them down online and verify that, yes, they were real Ageless Male Max customers. My office shuts down for the week following Christmas, yet I still don’t have time to sift through 278 million Google hits, trying to find the correct “Erik M.” who insisted that, yes, he was able to do more gym reps thanks to Ageless Male Max.
The ad promised “Easy as 1-2-3” results. First, the pill would enter my blood stream and produce much-needed nitric oxide, necessary for sexual arousal. Who knew?
Step two would bring the arrival of the mysterious KSM-66 and all its Ashwagandha root benefits. My “cortisol levels” would decrease, thereby improving my mood, the ad promised.
By the time I hit step three, I would, the site stated, have increased muscle size and reduced body fat. If I had doubts, all I had to do was look at Erik M. Or Rocco S. Or Scott L. All three were ripped; yet two were bald, making me wonder if KSM-66 causes hair loss.
My first bottle, shockingly, would be free. I’d just have to pony up $6.99 for shipping and handling. My mouse hovered over the “try it now” button but, as I do every year, I reneged at the last moment, fearful of these wonder drugs that promise so much but cost nothing.
Instead, I vowed to hit the gym harder, cut down on evening beers and bring my own, healthy snacks to next year’s round of Christmas parties.
Anybody know what kind of dip goes best with Ashwagandha root?
I’ll admit, when it comes to fashion, color schemes have never been my forte. In college, I worked Christmas breaks at a high-end men’s clothier, a job that suited me about as much as working on a construction site.
When I think of Nashville, I think of legends like Hank Williams and Johnny Cash, both of whom are, in fact, dead and therefore eligible for building naming status. I would have no qualms texting my wife about a three-hour layover in “Hank” or “The Man in Black International.” But telling her I’m “stuck in Oprah for the time being”? Different story.
