Saturday, May 5, 2012

Aggressive Morning

Just a tip-off: Anyone who is not a fan of Conan the Barbarian (yes the original, quit fucking asking) might want to spend their 5 minutes on higher pursuits, like picking their nose or huffing VCR head cleaner.  And while you're at, kill yourself.  If you haven't seen this movie, then clearly you've done nothing with your life and never will. 

I like to listen to classical music in the morning.  It is a soothing way to ease into a new day.  98.7 in Chicago is an exceptional radio station, and my man Carl Grapentine has the voice of an angel.  A goddamned siren song.  This morning I was driving to the gym prior to Carl's morning start time of 06:00, so I was grooving along with Peter Van De Graaf.  Peter is no Carl, and I'll fight any man, woman or child who says differently.  But Peter is cool.  I was greeted today with a most fucking awesome tune, that being a little Conan the Barbarian montage.  There are few better ways to get pumped for anything than CtheB music.  I mean, obviously smoking some crack and slamming your shoulder into a wall until the pain necessitates you go do something really sweet is probably a slightly more effective way--but we're splitting hairs at that point.  I sat in the car and let the entire score play out before I made my move:

I went into 7-11 and bought some shoe polish.  Why shoe polish still exists at the consumer level, and why they always sell it at convenience stores and gas stations--neither of which sells shoes--is beyond me. But you know it will be right there below the duct tape and the cloth work gloves.  I take the shoe polish back to my car, where I proceed to lose the shirt and cover my face, neck and torso in black camouflage striping.  I was fresh out of rope for scaling the wall of East Bank Club, so I went through the front per usual.  I was greeted with curious stares from the front desk staff charged with checking in my member card.  Unlike every other morning when I present my card for swiping, today I round-house kicked the first guy in the head, knocking him unconscious.  I immediately grabbed the woman, managing to stifle her scream before she could complete it.  I slowly put her down with a sleeper hold.  With both sleeping off the assault, I proceeded straight to the main workout room.  Unfortunately I had no sword so I improvised as best I could.  As I entered I grabbed a narrow barbell, those for the aerobics classes that are super light for women.  From my gym bag I pulled out the jump rope.  I immediately ducked from view and took the stairwell to the upper balcony.  I slid down the heating duct with a primal scream.  The element of surprise was with me, as no one in the workout room at 5:45 a.m. was expecting a short, shirtless dude with cammo to be sliding down the heating duct.  I proceeded immediately upon hitting the floor to whipping every person near me with my jump rope followed by smashing or slashing them with the barbell.  It was complete and utter pandemonium.  I knew at this point time was not on my side.  Before the authorities could arrive, presumably armed with guns and not jump ropes and barbells, I dashed outside.  The East Bank Club, as the name would indicate, sits directly on the east bank of the river.  I dashed up and down the river walk until I found a snake.  Granted it was not a 100ft long boa constrictor who eats sacrificed virgins once a week, but it would do.  I went back inside to the main workout room.  I was able to use the weight stack on a quad machine to sever the snake's head.  I threw the carcass into the middle of the room, then held the barbell upright very menacingly, daring anyone to challenge me.  No one moved an inch.  I left the way I came.

This is what happens when Peter Van De Graaf plays the Conan montage to start the morning.  A bit irresponsible on Peter's part.  Regrettably I used my member card to swipe at the parking gate upon exiting, so I fear it may not take Sherlock Holmes to locate me.  But with the Riddle of Steel now solved, I can relax and enjoy my weekend.


  1. A Fucking Plus Plus. I could hear the lamentation of the women in my head as I read.


  2. This pleases Crom, I am sure.