I have reason to believe that the facial expressions an individual makes while undergoing strenuous exercise are the same facial expressions that they would make during intense sexual intercourse. This is just one of the reasons that I try to avoid working out with family members and male friends, but I will gladly pump iron with another if I feel that a fit little lady is interested in being my spotter while I flex my nuts or if money is involved. On the rare occasions that I leave my miniaturized home gym for the bro infested UNK gym that’s filled with rimjobbers curling in the squat rack and questions of how much do I bench, I spend more time staring at the lady lifters’ faces rather than their asses. I find it more arousing and creepier to study their facial contortions while they exercise to get an idea of how a gasm-spasm would affect them instead of ogling their asses with simple thoughts of “I gonna put my baby in dat”. Yesterday I watched of Asians squint and squawk as they did their reg presses and then warking runges across the gym, managing to get in everyone’s way. The gym is not the only place where I am able to see people flaunting their O-faces in public; I also get to see unintentional sexual shivers at my favorite place on Earth, Wal-Mart.
So the other night I went to Wal-Mart at around 10:30PM to buy some eggs, tonic water, and frozen vegetables, but I came home with sweet potatoes and a lawn chair instead. There is a surprising array of characters that can be seen shopping at a Nebraska Wal-Mart during the store’s late restocking hours. Between the heavyweights that are pushing loaded dollies and zombies pushing floor sweepers about the store, the college students that put off grocery shopping until they’re about to go to bed and realize that they have nothing to eat the next day, and the unmoving mouth breathers that I see in the bread isle leaning on their cart and gasping for air due to their physical exhaustion from blinking, Wal-Mart is like an all night sexual orgy where nobody takes their clothes off. Labored grunts and panting echo throughout the mother-store due to the emptiness of the great fortress at night. These people are interesting, but there is another group of late night shoppers that I find mysterious. These are the shoppers that bring their young children to the store. I have no fucking understanding of this whatsoever because more often than not it is a couple with their adolescent or pre-adolescent children hobbling through Wal-Mart with a cart full of Mountain Dew and Pop-Tarts way past the time that a child of that age should be in bed. Christ alive, I especially see no reason why both of the parents have to be at the store with the kids at that time of night. Couldn’t one of the parents run to the store to buy their diabetes ammunition while the other one acts responsible by staying home to put the kids to bed?
So I’m looking at the frozen vegetables and decide that sweet potatoes sound more appealing. While spending 5 hours trying to get one of those little clear plastic baggies to open so I could fill it with nutrient dense sweet potatoes I think about how the shit kicking redneck fag-enablers that live upstairs are gone for the summer, so I should buy a lawn chair to sit on their stoop and sip some la-la when the weather’s nice. I spent another 5 hours searching every goddamn isle of Wal-Mart’s vast womb for lawn chairs before realizing that they are located in the effing Garden Center. So I went into the Carrot Cottage and grabbed a glorious metal and green plastic lawn chair that I believe had been hanging on the wall since 1986. I chose green because that is my favorite color and it was the only color that was left.
As I left the Flower Tower and walked past the diet pills and protein powders situated in front of the pharmacy, which is placed there as an island of hope for the gravity challenged customers and as a way for lord Wal-Mart to suck more money out of their candy bar funds after they purchase their insulin and adult diapers for their Olestra leaking anuses at the pharmacy. Drooling and gazing at the bottles of dietary miracles was a female ambulocetus and a calicothere bull with their two young offspring, a Caucasian male Pac-Man and a cross-eyed little girl that made Somalians look like fat asses. Normally I wouldn’t have said anything but the mom was looking at the Hydroxycut bullshit so I said, “Don’t waste your money, all of that stuff is a hoax.” The family circus act rotated their heads towards me to see me wearing my sleeveless workout shirt and my fucking creatine breathing bicep veins pumping with anticipation of curling anyone that questions my nutrition factoids and the look on their round ET shaped heads was one of belief, and trust.
“What should we buy then?” Garbled the motherload.
“None of that stuff. You’re better off buying coffee or green tea and replacing a meal with one of them. That way you get an energy boost while taking in less calories.” I replied while making my pecs dance and my eyebrows bounce.
“But I ain’t a be a done a drinkin’ no a coffay or a grain tay.” Said the 7-year-old boy that weighed more than a high schooler. Perhaps these children slept during school hours to receive the higher learning of Wal-Mart at night.
I looked at the family’s cart to see it overflowing with generic two liter bottles of Wal-Mart pop, TV dinners, and fucking chocolate chip Pop-Tarts. You have either hit the lowest point in your life or you need to get out of bed before noon if you fucking eat chocolate for breakfast. Besides, if you don’t like strawberry Pop-Tarts then you are what is wrong with this country.
Anyway, I looked at the little sugar filled moron and said, “Well if you switch out the regular pop for diet pop then you cut around 100 calories from each glass, and if you eat an apple or peanut butter on toast you’ll get a lot more out of breakfast and it’s just as easy to make.” I had reached a new lowly level of fitness nerd by touting this simple knowledge at a Wal-Mart late at night, but this information appeased the herd. They immediately turned away from the miracle bottles and began to walk with me towards the checkout lanes and the produce isle that is beyond them.
The female earthquake had a smile on her face and the lurching male stared off into space. Actually when I come to think of it, I believe the father had his eyes closed the entire time. And both the small moon and the gaunt little girl grabbed my lawn chair to help me carry it to the checkout lane. That is when I was forced to lay witness to the O-faces of two underage children.
This majestic green lawn chair weighed all of ten pounds, maybe less, and these two underage genetic mutations were struggling with all of their might to carry it. The fat kid’s stomach was jiggling beneath his Spiderman shirt and the cross-eyed girl’s eyes went straight as they both gritted their teeth and broke a sweat carrying this chair that weighed less than my paycheck, and then the momma manatee joined in to help. Her along with the two child sized boogers that fell out of her vagina were squinting and grimacing while fighting the gravitational field of this tiny fucking lawn chair. Due to my knowledge of the gasm-spasm face’s direct correlation to the excruciating labor face, I was forced to view an incestuous ménage a trois of orgasms as I walked to the checkout lane. Sexually speaking, neither the Mr. Cox that lives upstairs nor the Mr. Cox that lives downstairs was happy to see this, and all three of their eyes burned with displeasure. I grabbed the chair from them with one hand and said, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”
I am still uneasy about the orgy that I witnessed at Wal-Mart. I am trying to avoid thinking about it too much because it was disgusting and if my mind finds some sort of a resolve to it then I might end up with some sort of weird sexual fetish that would make my mating ambitions even more bizarre and upsetting to others. So I am trying to forget this incident entirely.
Well, I am now sitting in my comfy green lawn chair sipping on some healthy Propel vitamin powder mixed with water and a hearty splash of Platinum Vodka. And as far as that girl from Okcupid that was pulling on my heart strings goes, I spent an entire 2 minutes typing out this whole, “Hey how ya doin’? Welp, OK. Ya like my dick pic? Alright then, see ya later!” type of message and the heartless whore hasn’t even given me a response yet. Trifling cunt, I hope she dies of ass cancer.