I really need to start dating again . . .

03. March, 2008 | by John Moroney |

I did indeed run to the gym, and then promptly threw up (hey, you stay thin your way, I’ll stay thin mine). Somewhere in the middle of 500 crunches, I began to get an erection. I don’t even know how that’s possible, but it’s absolutely true. My eyes were closed, I was listening to Dethklok at peak volume, and there I was springing wood. I opened my eyes and quickly looked around to see if anyone was near; there was. There was a sweaty woman about three feet to my right, totally ignoring me. My body was undoubtedly reacting to the pheromones being released in her sweat.

I NEVER talk to anyone in the gym. I do not make eye contact, I do not flirt, I do not say hello, I do not stare. Hell, I don’t even look! I get enough creepy guys hitting on me down there—I can’t even imagine how bad it must be for women. So when I tell you I got a boner, remember that my eyes were closed, my iPod was at full blast. I was in my own world, concentrating on my form, focusing on my abs. I was not looking at her, hitting on her, nor talking to her. I didn’t even know she was there. I am at the gym for one reason and one reason only: to make myself so hot that even people who hate me want to fuck me.

The gym is no place to pick anyone up. It’s not a singles’ bar. I loathe people who use it as such. While working out, I’ve taken to wearing the ugliest, stinkiest clothing I can and farting whenever anyone gets near enough to hear me. That tends to keep most people at bay.

I closed my eyes again and started working much harder to get the blood back to where it belonged, which promptly worked, and went on through with my workout.

On my way home, I stopped at the store to pick up my new phone. Remember, at this point I have just sweat out two hundred dollars’ worth of Swedish vodka, thrown up, stunk to begin with, have on mismatched socks and a t-shirt which proudly announces that my cat runs my life. While being shown the features of the iPhone, I caught myself flirting really hard with the young lady selling it to me, who probably turned nineteen on her last birthday. I quickly gave her my credit card, then ran out of the store, shamefully clutching the new phone like it was porn.

I really need to start dating again . . .