Check out this new video from Zach and Aaron. Enjoy!
Check out this new video from Zach and Aaron. Enjoy!
Last year, I jumped on the bandwagon. I joined in the Twitter craze. I was young. Naive. Full of optimism that this branch of social media would once again bear fruits of knowledge and connect me to a larger portion of the world.
Now, some months later, I hang my head in shame.
I have failed Twitter. Utterly and completely failed it.
How did I fall so far, so fast? It’s difficult to say, but I have a couple of ideas.
For one, I’m bombastic. Loquacious. And yes, a little pompous. I like to hear myself talk (mostly) and certainly enjoy going back to read what I’ve written. But with Twitter’s 140-character limit, I found myself constrained. My thoughts require more than 140 characters, blast it! Talk to the people who text me; they’ll tell you my responses, while inane, typically reach the breaking point of the 160 characters afforded to me by my wireless carrier!
With Twitter’s 140 character limit, my brilliant writings become dull, witless, monosyllabic piles of dreck that a man who has received the miracle of eyesight after 20 years of blindness would take one glance upon them and immediately wish to return to the darkness.
Another is the self-promotion. My god, people. To paraphrase one of the most eloquent speakers of our times, Terrell Owens, “They love them some them.” Every time I would log on, there would advertisements thrown at me from all directions…”Buy from me! Come to my party! Look at this photo of take-out I got from Taco Bell! Now look at my tweet about eating Taco Bell!”
Twitter-loyalists will pipe up now, defending this, saying that we are bombarded with advertisements every day of our lives. True. However, I do not have to scroll through all those advertisements in the hope that there may be something worthwhile amongst these proclamations of self-promotion.
I admit, I attempted these advertisements early in my Twitter life. But once again my pomposity, love of verbiage, and adversity to internet shorthand limited what I could advertise. And now my daily tweet deals with a contest wherein I re-tweet a phrase in hopes of winning money for a car. I have become a shill.
Another reason I have gloriously failed? My location and access to technology. I live 20 minutes outside of Richmond, as well as owning a cell phone that lacks a camera or any other kind of recording device. Therefore, the great events I hear about being promoted in the city, as well as the real-time events, have no bearing on me. I would have gone sledding in Byrd Park, if my car had not been snowed in and I lived anywhere close to that area. But I do not. And the tweets I put up there about events happening in my area? The Richmonders don’t care. I’m the outsider looking in. The homeless man on Christmas Eve, looking into the window of the home that contains a loving family, where a turkey is being carved amidst marital and familial bliss. I desperately wish to join their world, but know I would be shunned for my lack of social graces.
As for the lack of technology, I can not send twit-pics. I can not become the metaphorical mayor of some place. Even if I did, the places I visit on a regular basis would elicit no response, positive or negative. My tweet followers would look and see I became the mayor of Wawa, and the reaction would be a yawn, a shrug, and their thumbs moving to indicate they had become the mayor of some upscale, chic cafe on Cary Street. I have no hope.
So yes, I have failed Twitter. I have failed it gloriously. Will I keep it? Sure. There may come a time when I will utilize it to its full advantage, and become renowned for my sharp, biting wit that is oh-so-brief. But soon I will put it on hiatus, and perhaps work on whittling my creative thoughts down to an acceptable length.
But for now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shill for a car company.
This is going to be a short and sweet entry, as it’s lunch-time and the stomach’s a-rumbling.
Recently, a friend of mine on Facebook joined the group, “Unfriended…Why?!”. I’m sure we’ve all looked at our list of friends, noticed that the number is one or two less than the previous day, and wondered where exactly we went wrong.
To perhaps help your wondering, I’ve decided to give a quick list of why I have un-friended people in the past.
Those are a few reasons. Feel free to add your own, or call me out on one or two of them.
Hello die hard Made of Bees fans! Here are some videos from the Richmond Improv festival. Like what you see? Come see us live!!!!
The BEES (well, 3/4 of them) got in Aaron’s Blazer, no not the jacket, and drove a gazillion hours, or 7, to Atlanta, Georgia for the 6th Annual Black Box Improv Festival.
Here is a short 3-4 minute video recapping adventures.
Last week we went on a grand adventure, where middle aged woman with tramp stamps roamed the earth. This week, ladies and gentlemen, we dive head first into the world of the elderly male athlete!
Yes I know, it is a scary tale, but together we can survive it!
Any good gym provides its patrons with adequate changing facilities. A few lockers, toilets, showers, and occasionally a sweet sauna room, but there are certain individuals who constantly abuse these amenities. A demographic who assume that the men’s locker room should have a “make yourself at home” policy. You all know who I’m talking about! That’s right, the old men. The guys who are always butt ass naked. There is no logical or scientific explanation as to why these elderly males deem it necessary to always be stark nude. Any time you enter a men’s locker room at your local gym, you are guaranteed to see a pale, wrinkled apparition.
I have been going to the gym long enough that I have gotten use to these images. I am no longer bothered by what looks like an old naked big foot sitting on the bench next to me. It has now become part of the gym experience. But what I saw the other day, would make Hiroshima look like a botanical garden.
I had entered the locker room expecting to see the normal amount of old man ass. Of course when I first walk in, there are two gentlemen carrying on a conversation while naked. This didn’t really surprise me so I continued looking for an empty locker. I placed my things in the locker and began to change. Another older gentlemen exits the shower and takes off his towel as he reaches the locker containing his belongings. Again, this isn’t anything new, so I continued about my business, lacing up my sneakers. As I was finishing the change, I noticed the plump, elder had retrieved his socks from his Nike gym bag. I thought this a bit odd considering the man was just standing in the middle of the locker room without any cloths on. In my mind, the underoos are the first clothing item any man should reach for. It is only polite to cover your twig and berries as soon as humanly possibly. But for some reason old men love being naked. I’m telling you, its a science oddity!
As I get up to exit the men’s locker room, the elderly fellow goes over to put on his socks. Bent over full moon, I get a sneak preview at this man’s backdoor entrance, along with tickle whistle, and shriveled prunes. For that split second I felt like I was about to give this man his yearly prostate exam.
I still wake up from nightmares.
I feel as if Zach Arnold is stealing all the blog glory! So I felt compelled to add my own little flavor. Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to a blog-ment (it was my clever way of combining blog and segment) I like to call: Disturbing Things I Have Seen at the Gym!!
Being a pretty active fellow I spend a good amount of time in the gym. I tend to zone out, get the workout in, and get out. But every now and then something peculiar, out of the ordinary, and just down right not meant for human eyes, will catch my attention. Last week I was at American Family fitness doing a couple reps of dumbbell deadlifts (1,000 to be exact), when God himself thought it necessary to come down from the heavens to punish my eyes, AND overall mental state.
No more than 2 feet from my designated work out area, that I had clearly marked with droplets of sweat, an intruder had arrived. Now I am not a gym snob by any means. You know, those guys who feel it necessary to use all the equipment at once, and choose to condescendingly smirk at you when it’s finally your turn. I just simply want a little bit of room, so that I’m not constantly having to dodge people in the middle of my set.
This was no ordinary intruder, no, it was a middle aged African-American woman sporting a “flock of seagulls mixed with Fresh Prince of Bel-are” hair do, and Baby Phat attire. And lets just say that she did not fit these close the way a grown, mature woman should. The hot pink tank top she was wearing only went down to about mid-bellybutton. Just enough to cover the start of her happy trail. Thank you for only halfway scaring me for life. The tight black workout pants she was wearing, hugged her legs making them both look like giant man eating caterpillars.
I was already at workout mix song number 5, so I was able to zone this hideous sight out. As I was doing my reps I notice she is doing lying flys. Which, if you are not aware, is basically laying on your back and opening your arms and closing them like a butterfly (with weights of course). This strategic move, allowed the ever so lovely “Baby Phat” to share with me, and the rest of the gentlemen in the gym, that she was not very good and shaving her armpits. And you say: “But Aaron, this is disgusting enough, please stop the post!”, and I say, nay my friends, it gets worse.
Once she is done, she begins to return to an upright position on the bench. Of course because her hot pink Baby Phat shirt is three sizes too small it begins to ride up her, surprise, hairy lower back. As the shirt is slowly escaping the almost certain doom of her butt crack, I begin to see the revealing of what looks like a tramp stamp. Am I surprised? Of course not, this far into the story, it should be obvious this woman would have a tramp stamp (lower back tattoo). As her shirt was wondering up I began to wonder what the tattoo could be. A butterfly perhaps, maybe some sort of flower. I was naive to assume it would be anything remotely beautiful. The shirt finally and fully revealed the entire tattoo, and in cursive it read: