HermTheWorm’s B.L.O.G.

My PM box is always filled up and overflowing. Not by my so-called "friends".

Ha!

No, they never drop me a line and when I write them they never write me back. Some friends.

No, my PM box is always full of PM’s from various anonymous miscreants, that I go back and forth with, glutton for punishment that I am. I don’t know why I do this.

They write me something abusive/inappropriate/hateful and I go back and forth with these dregs. Again and again and again, like a f-cking tennis match. I’ve saved a lot of my correspondences and have cut and pasted the various PM’s into readable dialogues.

Allow me to share some with you, gentle reader, the screen names were NOT changed to protect the innocent:

PM Title: Hello, you sexy little man!

MountainOfLove: I was wondering if you were interested in a little verbal hanky panky with a big woman?
HermTheWorm: Big how? Are you tall?
MountainOfLove: No, you silly little man.
HermTheWorm: Do you have big muscles? Big tits? What the f-ck do you mean by "big"?
MountianOfLove: No, let’s put it this way, my dress size is triple digits.
HermTheWorm: Oh, so you’re a big, fat f-ck. Lovely. Why do I always get the fatties?
MountianOfLove: Once you try big, you’ll flip your wig.
HermTheWorm: OMFG, I’m nauseous.
MountianOfLove: That’s probably because you don’t eat enough, you silly little man. I’m eating a southern fried chicken drumstick. Do you want to know what I’m doing with the drumstick now?
HermTheWorm: Dear God no, please, not what I think.
MountianOfLove: Are you thinking naughty thoughts, little man?
HermTheWorm: If vomiting followed by suicide is considered a naughty thought, then yes, I’m thinking naughty thoughts. Look, it’s past my bedtime.
MountianOfLove: Don’t leave me, little man. Did you know I’m a southern belle?
HermTheWorm: You sound more like Taco Bell. Look, I gotta’ go to bed now. Nice chatting with you. Bye.

PM Title: Achtung, Juden swine!

BuffNazi: So your a Jew, huh?
HermTheWorm: Yeah, I’ve only mentioned it a hundred million times on this site. You’re a quick study.
BuffNazi: Are you trying to be smart with me, Juden?
HermTheWorm:  Perhaps. Why do you call me Juden? That’s not my name. Didn’t the Beatles have a song "Hey Juden"?
BuffNazi: You’re really funny, Juden. Hitler didn’t finish the job.
HermTheWorm: Maybe he had ADHD like me. You know my wife has a brazillion wax that looks like hitler’s mustashe, do you think she is trying to tell me that she is an anti-Semite in a very clever, nefarious way?
BuffNazi: They should put you in a concentration camp.
HermTheWorm: That would be great. I have ADHD, do you think I’d be able to concentrate better if I went to concentration camp? Is it like band camp? Do girls stick flutes in their p-ssies?
BuffNazi: They should put you in an oven.
HermTheWorm: Well, as I keep telling you, I have ADHD, so could they make it a quick zap in a microwave? I don’t have the patience to be slow cooked.
BuffNazi: You Jew.
HermTheWorm: Yup, that’s me all over. Well, I’d like to say it was a pleasure talking to you, but it wasn’t. Unplug your computer and hang yourself with the cord, dipsh-t.

PM title: Do you like dick?

TheFlamer: Well, do you?
HermTheWorm: It depends. Dick who? Dick Martin from laugh-in?
TheFlamer: No, just dick in general.
HermTheWorm: I can’t make a judgment about a guy based on his first name, I’d have to meet him.
TheFlamer: I mean my dick.
HermTheWorm: Your Dick? Is he an employee of yours? Is Dick your butler? I could use someone to clean up after me, I’m a total slob. I’d probably like your Dick if he cleaned up after me and didn’t charge too much.
TheFlamer: My dick is free and big.
HermTheWorm: Free and big? Wow! I won’t have to pay him and he can lift the fridge and get behind there and move furniture around. This sounds too good to be true. Why don’t you send your Dick over.
TheFlamer: Where ever my dick goes, I go.
HermTheWorm: Sounds good. You can clean upstairs and he can clean downstairs. This is too good to be true. I’ll PM you my address and the both of you can come over tomorrow.
TheFlamer: Okay, we’ll come over. My dick is going to be really hard.
HermTheWorm: Hard to get along with? Don’t worry, I can get along with anybody! You guys come over tomorrow. Can’t wait! Wow, free housecleaning. This must be my lucky day!

Yeah, folks. This is just a small sample of some of the bullsh-t I have to put up with via my PM’s. Not a pretty picture. Maybe I’ll just stop answering them, but I’m always hoping upon hope that one of my "friends" will drop me a line, so I keep a vigil nonetheless. None of my so-called "friends" have dropped me a line yet…But I’ll continue to look at the glass as half full, ’cause that’s the kind of guy I am.

Oh look, I just got another one from screen name "IGotTheBigOne"! A friend? Maybe…Just maybe…BRB!

Let’s see, I need to breath, or I’ll die. How’s that for starters? I need to eat, yes, I sure do. I’ll throw sh-tting and p-ssing in there, too. That’s just about it on the things that I need to do list.

Yeah, I stumbled across yet another one.

Another day, another f-cktard.

That is the way it is in downtown Manhattan. I will straighten all their sh-t the f-ck out, one by f-cking one. That seems to be my mission in life.

Do I want it to be my mission in life? No, I’d rather my mission in life be to assess naked women and test various parts of their bodies for firmness. However, I think my wife would carve out my eyeballs, cut off my nuts and place them into my now empty eye sockets. Not conducive to a mission that requires visual acumen; so for now, my mission will have to consist of putting the world’s f-cktards on the straight and narrow. Someone’s gotta’ do it, right?

So, I’m at the gym yesterday. I’m at the gym every day. I am in a bad mood. I am in an even for HermTheWorm bad mood. I am the bad mood dude. Like that guy on Saturday Night live would say: Bad moodster! Bad Moodmiester! The Mad mood Maaaan! The Bad moodinater! Bad Moodarama!

Bad to the bone. Bad to my f-cking bone. Me. The Herm.

Still, I bother no one. I wipe off equipment. I say please and thank you. I don’t stand around with my arms folded, tapping my foot when I want to use something that some one else is using at the time. Basically, I conduct myself the way I except others to conduct themselves. Yeah, lots of luck with that, Charley. Dream on; but when somone breatches this unwritten code, then I have to become the one man vigilante posse that I am.

So, I’m not going to bore you with (How did this happen today? Was it national show your public hair day?) all the woman doing ab exercises on the floor between incline benches when there are acres and acres (acres and acres seems to be the theme) of mats upstairs, and they’re down here, as I mentioned earlier, with public hairs sticking out of the bottom of their outfits like…Like…Words fail me. I thought Brazilians were the rage these days. What. The. F-ck. The depths of their starved for attention-ness, attention of any kind, never ceases to amaze. Why me?

No, I ain’t gonna bother you with the 49 year old fat hippy circling me and circling me again like the f-cking earth circles the sun, picking his nose so deep I thought he was going to puncture his brain. When he saw that I saw him, he manages, somehow, to stick his finger even further up his nose. It was like the old woman who swallowed the cow, I don’t know how she swallowed the cow. I don’t know how this guy pulled that off. This guy was a total sloppy mess from head to toe. Can some one please tell me why it was so imperative for him to have pristinely clean nasal passages?

I won’t mention these things. I do not want to bore you with such minutia. We have bigger fish to fry on this blog.

So stupid me, after finishing my chest and 99 percent of my back, ventures "upstairs" to use this really fantastic back machine to finish off my back routine. Whenever I am foolish enough to amble out of the sanctuary of the free weight area, heniousness awaits. When will I learn?

Did I mention that I was in a bad mood? Bad mood even for me? I did? Well, you’re hearing it again. Tough titties.

So this big, doughy piece of sh-t was doing "I don’t know what" on one of those huge medicine balls with big bad 15 pound dumbells. Okay, fine and dandy. Do your pathetic little bit of patheticness on the exercise ball. I’m sure you can’t get enough balls in real life so why not rollick and frollick all over a Jolly green giant size one and call it exercise. Knock yourself out, and go get a running start and impale yourself on something sharp while you’re at it.

So here’s the kicker. He is using the machine I want to use for a table to scriblle his notes between sets. As I mentioned earlier, upstairs is cavernous and has acres and acres of mats, there are window sills, and the old HermTheWorm standby, the floor. Eeeew Germs! I’m soooooo scared of "Teh germs!!!". Give me a break.

So I wait in the wings. I wait. I wait some more. I notice my breaths getting shorter and deeper. I wait some more. My face is getting ever so slightly flushed. I continue to wait. And wait and f-cking wait.

It’s the Principal, folks.

One, I do not want to have to engage this inconsiderate prick in any capacity. I’m sure he has a blurb on the wall of the locker room toilet extolling his virtues in orally pleasuring gentlemen along with his phone number. He should be satisfied by the attention he  receives from lonely heart callers who’ve jotted down his number, and leave the rest of us to do our oddball things at the gym…Like working out. Weird sh-t like that.

And two, I don’t want to have to ask this dipsh-t for his permission to use a machine. "Excuse me, sir, But can I trouble you to move your clipboard so that I may use this machine? I am terribly sorry, your highness, for having the temerity to address you. A thousand pardons for my regression."

That ain’t gonna’ happen in this lifetime. If I get reincarnated, it ain’t gonna’ happen it that lifetime either.

I finally decide that enough is enough. I’m going to take the "nice" approach.

I walk right up to the machine and gaze at his clipboard.

"Oh, do you want to use this!"

No, I wanted to observe his workout notes to see how he got such a fabulous physique. I say (nicely),

"You know, I know you think this makes a lovely table, but it is, in fact, a piece of exercise equipment that people may want to use."

I put my headphones back on and consider the matter resolved. Like little Oliver Twist with his empty plate. He wants more. I take off my headphones. A-f-cking-gain.

"Yes?" I ask.

"You’re kidding, right?" He says.

I look him in the eye and say "No, I’m not kidding. I’m not kidding in the least."

He begins to go back to his ball which he moved all of three feet away from me, but decides he needs to impart a bit of life wisdom on moi. I take off my headphones. Yet. Again.

"You know." He says "You really need to chill out."

I need to chill out? We’ve already gone through the list of things that I need to do, and chilling out wasn’t on said list.

"I don’t NEED to do anything, motherf-cker."

That’s what you get for being a presumptuous ass and go around telling people what they "need" to do.

It’s put up or shut up at that point. He shut up. He shut the f-ck up. Maybe he’s not such a retard after all.

Every day.

Every f-cking day.

Perhaps I’m getting a little ahead of myself here.