I was a fitness trainer for seven years, and have been a hobby athlete since 2009, when I did my first Sprint Triathlon. Recently I completed 3/4 of a 128.8 Km Ultra Marathon and am trying to work myself up to a Hundred Miler. Gulp.
{It’s hard to believe this article is going to end with Motley Crue spelled wrong}
I think I have a pretty impressive resumè when it comes to overall health and the capabilities our wonderful bodies bless us with. However, there are still many people out there who not only doubt my expertise, but go out of their way to imply that their way is much righter than mine, and people should follow their way, until their way proves how amazingly excellent they are, no matter how many times they have to mention ‘their way’ (4).
Fitbit, or, as it may as well be known, “the Twitter of the Fitness World”, is a freighter loaded with the contents of eight freighters, and arms and legs, as well as rats, dangle and spill from every opening; tempers are high, nerves are thin, there is name calling and pushing and shoving. On good days there is neither a captain nor officers, and definitely no navigator, but on bad days they appear to lay heavy judgement upon the lowly passengers, which amounts to one or two persons being flogged until the trip can continue as planned, which it isn’t. I consider myself an expert on Fitbit law and order, because I have been reported and blocked on three instances, two involving bad grammar and one involving, get this, Motley Cruë.
The two former examples might have well been written by the same person: middle-aged white men with very little schooling or, like, punctuation, and a conviction that success in life is measured by how swole one is.
I know this one guy, let’s call him Steve. No, Dave. His name was Dave. Or better yet, he had a double name. Dave-Steve. Dave-Steve Hemhaw was his name. I swear. Dave-Steve was a man who felt he was doing fine with his own nutrition and fitness plan, and did not need my help improving his overall state of health. Last Halloween, dressed as a Marvel Super Hero–I think it was Polyp Man–Dave-Steve got into an argument with someone who claimed that one guy from Star Wars, the fat one who froze Han Solo, was actually a better actor than Han Solo and, in fact, just about everyone human who ever appeared in those movies, despite being made of rubber and terribly primitive special effects. One thing led to another, and Dave-Steve mistakenly punched his own two front teeth out. When he went to the dentist his card was maxed out, and he couldn’t even afford one of the plastic paratroopers from the treasure box there, so Dave-Steve had to take his mouthful of broken teeth back home empty-handed. Having no teeth greatly affected his ability to work, him being a professional bird-caller and all, and Dave-Steve had to pass up several lucrative bird-calling gigs because of his ability to no longer be able to mimic those birds singing in the higher registers, which is like, all of them, and could only perform subjacent avian-calls, like chickens’s and geese’s, until Steve-Dave lost all standing in the bird-calling community and was looked down upon as a total Piltdown Man. He lost all of his important bird-calling business connections, and could find, surprisingly, no outlets for his once fearsome bird-calling aptitude except on the lowly “Poultry Is Us” Website, where he did voiceovers for various feathered farm animals performing tasks like ‘clucking.’ And stuff.
Dave-Steve was a jumper overdosing on pavement. If only he had listened to me.
I wonder what point I’ve made therewith.
B..but on to Motley Crue. This woman on Fitbit posted a picture of her tickets for an upcoming concert this wretched “band” was playing, and I merely made the point that if they just went up onto the stage and crapped on it, no one would be worse for the wear, and everyone could go home and spend considerably more time doing something worthwhile, which, in this case, included: 1.), everything.
Hence I was blocked, and had to stand in the Penalty Box of Silence and watch as other people rejoiced over the upcoming debacle, as if there could be more than one zipperhead out there with nothing better between their ears than the dazzling magical musical diarrhea from the “3rd best ‘hair metal’ band of all-time” [2013 LA Weekly].
Did they all somehow forget that Motley Crue spelled wrong had their unfortunately-named Farewell Tour in 2015, culminating (? How does shit ‘culminate’?) on December 31th with an evening filmed for a presumably never realized project entitled “Motley Crue: THE END”?
My point-alas, so playful and secretive, so clever and skilled in the art of hiding-being that these scuzzball teenagers who used to listen to these “musicians” to piss off their parents have now become them, to the point where they have persons of other opinions (read: me) quashed.
Many of you may have picked on the slightly negative vibe I have towards Mötley Crüe, who thought it would be creative to replace ‘o’ and ‘u’ with German umlauts because, supposedly, they were drinking Löwenbraü at the time. For anyone with even passing familiarity of German beer, their choice of beverage says a lot about them, and for those of you looking for inspiring, fulfilling works, or even kick-ass voices of non-conformity, well, you’ll just have to content yourself with ‘ö’ and ‘ü’ here.
I guess you can’t blame Motley Crue spelled wrong. If their fans really want to line up like lemmings and stuff money into their pockets, who is Motley Crue spelled wrong to say no?
On a side note here, it seems something called Nikki Sixx once ODed on heroin, and the guy who sold him the stuff unloaded his unconscious body in a dumpster. Now there’s a guy who has the pulse. I think I’d like to pay him some of my money. Nikki Sixx, I mean. Not the dude who threw him in the dumpster.
At least he learned his lesson. Nikki managed to not overdose for 22 months afterwards.
But I wanted to talk to you about fitness.
Specifically, why Motley Crue needs to appear on Fitbit, a supposed Fitness media outlet.
It doesn’t.