Big dog and badly timed imaginings.

So I'm walkin home from my pals house. It's the back of one, it's dark. I've been reading a lot about this "Michigan Dogman" thing..... google it, it's scary stuff, big werewolf thing that's been sighted for hundreds of years around michigan. Anyway, I turn into my street, and there's this bush in a garden that starts blowing in the breeze. For some reason, I imagine the michigan dogman rearing up out of the bush and grinning at me. A shiver runs down my back...... imagine how scared you'd be if that happened, thinks I. Then there's a sound across the road, a sort of shuffle..... a scrape of claws on pavement. Now I've been a tubby little fucker for a year or so, but the old reactions are still operating at full steam (I seem to have been blessed with ninja reactions for some reason. I don't get many opportunities to show them off apart from catching the odd packet of flying super noodles without looking at them, but I do.) so I was round and facing the fucker before it was fully off the ground.

It was at least seven feet tall. It's eyes glowed red and fire spewed from it's frothing maw as it sprang to it's feet. At least, in my mind it did, in reality a pretty large black dog had just been disturbed from...... doing whatever the fuck it was doing laying in the middle of the street, by me wandering along. It jumped up and began barking and snarling as it ran straight at me.

I'd like to say I immediately dropped into a combat stance and prepared to grapple with the beast. I'd like to say I remembered the worst thing to do is run. I'd like to say these things. In reality, I let out a weak "Oh fuck" and gripped the fence as this thing ran at me and my brain tried to figure out what kind it was..... is it gonna eat me or just a bit of me. By this point, I had realised it wasn't a 7 foot werewolf, but was still a pretty hefty old dog. Fortunately, it took my rooted-to-the-spot-and-shitting-myself stance as a come-and-have-a-go-if-you-think-you're-hard-enough one, and shat out of going for my throat..... a mistake on it's part I think, as my jugular, though protected by at least three chins, is considerably closer to the ground than most. It stopped, looked at me then ran off round the corner, barking..... I assume to make sure I didn't follow it. It needn't have bothered.

When I got home and took out my keys, I realised I was shaking like a vibrator on a washing machine. Big bastard dug.

So anyway. There's another interesting happening in the life of me. Which, it seems, no-one will read. Tch. Ah well. Passed some time while pkr updates......

Winky trauma! What.... the.....?

Nobody told me about that. That freaked me the fuck right out that did.

Anybody who's been paying attention to my rambling either on here (and judgin by the page views, that's not much) or in real life will know I got tired of being the fattest gnome in Scotland after TITP and decided to lose a stone. Well, last week I stepped up my effort a bit after having my BMI and body fat measured.... my BMI was fine, I was spot on. But my body fat %? Well..... it wasn't good. Leave it at that. It can't be right that I'm the right weight for my height but my fat content qualifies me as (overweight) by american standards (the first website I looked up said I was obese! OBESE! Now I know I like a pizza, but that's a bit much. By the american athletic association standards I'm 1.5% into the overweight range. Which is better, at least.) So I decided that cutting out half of the shit I eat isn't enough, I'm actually gonna have to exercise. So, for a week now (apart from yesterday and sunday, when I was incapacitated with a mystery illness..... sore head, feeling sick, whatever could have caused it I do not know) I've been hitting the old bike hard (pffft, steady.....) and doing half an hour a day. Started off getting just over 8 miles done in that time, but tonight I managed over 9.

Now. I'm not one to shy away from embarrassing things. Whatever it might be that happens to me, I am unable to keep embarrassing things to myself. And this is no different. So there I was, fresh off the old exersize bike having tanked 9.13 miles out in half an hour, sweating like Harold Shipman at a Darby and Joan dance, when I wander over and sit on my PC chair to switch off the tunes before I jump in the shower. And I noticed an..... odd feeling.

I thought the old pork swordsman had become caught between my shorts and my leg. A quick glance down and nope, there's no helmet visible, so I reasoned he must be caught in the waistband. No. So I had a quick shufty down the old shorts.

THE BLOODY THING WAS SHRIVELLED UP LIKE A RAISIN!

Now, at the best of times it's hardly going to block out the neighbours sunlight, but for a second I thought my single barrelled pump-action porrige gun had fallen off!

Fear not, ladies. It's back to it's collossal norm now *cough* but if that's what it takes to get fit, I think I'll stick to 8 miles a day. Next time it might not come back out!

I can only assume my body needed the blood elsewhere.

Anyway. What? Me? Embarrassed? Noooooo not for years! Oh, if you're wondering, it's working. Half a stone gone in 3 weeks. (It's the other stones I'm worried about) Another 3 and I should once again be lean and sleek like some kind of sexy panther.

I know, you can't polish a turd. But you can try.

Never. Never never NEVER write a blog drunk. This comes from someone who wites a lot of blogs. And someone who is pissed more than Oliver Reed on a week night. Just take it from an old campaigner. Never write a blog pissed. It's inevitable (God that took all my concentration) that you'll spell something wrong. And you might become OOGACHAKA OOGA OOGA OOGACHAKA OOGA OOGA OOGAChaka DISTRACTED BY THE MUSIC THAT'S PLAYING IN YOUR HEADPHONES. OOPS caps lock. Also, you might accidentally say things you dont mean to say. About cunts. Cunts you want to cunt in the fuck. Or folk you want to poke in the pokey hole. Or stuff. Stuff you want to stuff in the..... erm..... stuff. Basically, drunken blogs are a bad idea. It's 18 days til half my life was ruined, by the way. Not that I'm keeping watch. That would be weird. And no-one can accuse me of being weird. Wait.......... Wait a fucking tic. I AM weird. I don't like Leona Lewis, because she's a generic hairbrush-singer. I don't have a fucking sticky up haircut. I won't shag the first thing that looks at me....... whenever that might be. I happen to think that House MD might not be that clever, actually. I have an IQ that I am proud enough of to embarrass myself by mentioning. Some day, and that day might never come........ oh fuck off and watch the simple life.