I have an elliptical machine. To be more specific I have a Nordic Trak elliptical machine which I have maliciously named Loki. As I have a love/hate relationship with all of my fitness contraptions and have shed fair amount of DNA on them, I feel they should have names. Loki is actually my third elliptical machine. Malbolgia was the first and he was one tweaked bastard. Many an afternoon I’d dismount from his deceptively sparse frame cursing his designer and my vanity. Eventually, I got the better of him or one of my curses were heard because one day he just broke down. One minute I was cycling/dancing my way through Ludacris’ “How Low Can You Go” and the next minute there was a clink, a clang, and a loss of resistance. I humanely put him out to pasture. Then there was Azazeal whom I acquired from a co-worker. That sadistic maniac had an even more streamlined frame and dimensions that you needed to have 4 ft. of leg to ride comfortably.  Not only that, but your center of gravity needed to be that of a male for you keep from tilting forward as you worked the peddles; not the ideal construction for a 5 ft. 4 in. female frame.  Thus Azazeal was sent to perdition.  And that brings us to Loki, my Norse torture device and my new nemesis. (For those of you who don’t know, Ragnarok, loosely translated, is the Norse version of the end-of-days.) 

Now, I’ve been on Loki before. I took him for a test drive some time last year and we were a good fit. He has all of these bells and whistles and I can hook my MP3 device to him and listen to my tunes without worrying about sweaty headphones. Sweet. Loki also takes up an inordinate amount of space but can be folded up somewhat to make more room.  Which is awesome. So, when I made the decision to once again attempt to build a better body I thought I knew what I was in store for. Hah!

I come home, I set up the tunes, I place my water within reach and hop aboard the Loki-train. My goal for today was to ride through three songs. I would do no more than 10 minutes because I didn’t want to overdo it. I set the resistance to Level 2 and started peddling.

First song up is Petey Pablo’s “Freek-a-Leek.” I love those over the top, raunchy lyrics and the beat is killer. So I’m pacing myself and going at a good clip. I even use the heart rate check feature.Soon, I started to get winded, so I stopped for a water break. No big deal, right? WRONG that damn machine beeped at me. Rude. I guess I wasn’t keeping it moving. WTH? I shot that so-and-so a dirty look and snottily started moving again.

Second song up is Cee-Lo’s “F@*K You!” the unedited version and can I just tell you that by this time my thighs were screaming “eff you” right along with him! I take another water break and Loki again emits a rude beeeeeep. Yes, there were extra “e’s” in the sound. I counted them. I did what anyone else would do and gave him and his beep the one finger salute and I resentfully started back peddling.

Now we’re on the third song which is Ludacris’ “Get Back!” Normally, I really get into this song but for some reason, I just couldn’t. I’d hit that 10 minute mark, but I was only in the middle of my second lap. This is where my dang OCD and/or perfectionism kicked in and I just couldn’t leave that damn lap unfinished. It offended my sense of symmetry. Either that or the oxygen deprivation had killed off crucial brain cells; I can’t decide which.

So, I’m valiantly peddling while I’m sucking in air with which to more fully curse myself and that damn machine more effectively. I wish I knew Norse so that I could curse Loki out in his native tongue. I of course have to stop to pour water down my throat and what do you know? That misbegotten piece of machinery “beeped” at me again. And it had the nerve to have a tone. A snarky tone! I was so flipping mad that the only sounds I could then make were garbled expletives that were mixed with far too much spittle. I bet I looked like Yosemite Sam in a full-on rant. My legs were trembling, my chest was heaving and my vision was blurry but by Odin I finished that second twice be damned lap! My total time on the elliptical was 16 minutes. Oh, and in case you were thinking that my breaks were included in that time—they weren’t. Loki doesn’t count time if those peddles aren’t moving, the jerk.


Do they dub over voices in porns?

It’s 11:30 pm and I’m about to drop off to sleep when a random question pops into my head: Do they dub over voices in porns?

It’s a valid question. Think about it, you’re the director of a skin flick and you’re casting the leads. The woman is hot with a (forgive the pun) banging body and the man is someone that the ladies (and a fair number of men) wouldn’t mind seeing his twig and berries. You’ve got the music, the setting, the “plot” and the fluffer. Everything is ready to go when your male lead opens his mouth and he sounds like a castrati. You know, a young male that was castrated before puberty in order to preserve his singing voice. What do you do? You can’t have Sir Long Schlong sounding like an elementary school kid. That ain’t creaming anybody’s Twinkie my friend and you can’t just have all music and no dialogue. Some people get off on aural stimulus. So what do you do? If any of you know the answer, please share.

Yeah, this is exactly the reason why people repeatedly tell me to hush. My mind is a strange and twisted place that has a direct feed to my mouth and fingers. It’s my gift. You’re welcome.