HermTheWorm’s B.L.O.G.

In the manual entitled "Why women should work out"
Chapter four, reason number 4,763 clearly states:

Because if you do, and someone tries to rob you,
you will be strong enough to subdue him and rape
him for three days.

This is not funny. Rape is not a laughing matter.

If I knew this was the punishment for robbery,
I would have become a burglar.

Cutting carbs to lose weight? Me too.

Yaaaay for us! Yaaaay!

Here’s a sandwich without bread.

Yaaaaay!

It’s a bacon cheese and special sauce sandwich that uses two pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken Instead of bread.

Brilliant. As the blog headline states: Lose the bread, lose the weight. No problemo.

Yaaaaaay!

I can’t speak for all guys, so I won’t.

I can only speak for myself.

But back in the days when I was single and desperate, a girl’s looks didn’t matter to me.

Okay, I take that back.

The MORE overweight and unattractive and drunk she was, the BETTER.

I am not a stupid guy.

I knew I had no chance with good-looking or even average-looking women. In fact, even morbidly obese, extremely unattractive women would be repelled by me after a few minutes of conversion if they weren’t drunk to the point of being rushed to the emergency room for alcohol poisoning.

That is why, predator that I am, I would hit the bars one hour before closing time. By this time all the attractive, somewhat attractive, average-looking and even slightly-less-than-average-looking women would be whisked away. Heck, even fat, unattractive girls with great personalities would be gone at that point.

Enter the Herm.

I’d saunter in and, spread out before me would be a veritable smorgasbord of the fattest, ugliest, stupidest, drunkest and, God willing, horniest girls on the planet.

I’d work the room thinking, oh look how disgusting this one is. Oh my, my, look at that one, she’s missing a leg. Oh, look at this one over here, she just pulled out her dentures and laid them on the bar (Girls, just so we’re on the same page, having removable teeth is a big plus with guys. A big, big plus).

Usually I could tell who would be my one night stand de jour by this: Girl orders a beer. Girl proceeds to guzzle down beer in one fell swoop. Girl vomits beer back in glass verbatim. Girl guzzles regurgitated beer back down.

Boner time, baby. Little cartoon hearts fluttering around my head.

Do you know how a normal, well-adjusted, non-desperate guy (the opposite of me) will be chatting up a girl and then in walks a hotter girl and he stops the conversion short and makes a bee line to the hotter girl?

I was like that in reverse.

I’d could be chatting up to a 250 pound heifer with hairy arms and swastika tattoos who reeked of vomit and body odor, when in will waddle a 350 pound monstrosity with a crispy creme in one hand and a slice of pepperoni pizza in the other.

I’d be like, sorry baby, you’re history, and walk away in the direction of my new found paramour.  The one I was talking to would enevitably go crashing to the floor as she was leaning on me and using me as support in her drunken stupor. Sorry. All’s fair in love and war.

Why in the name of God am I telling you this, girls?

Because guys are not as picky as woman and most will do anything that moves. Actually, that’s not true, as a lot of the women I brought home were so passed out drunk that they were NOT moving in the slightest.

Silly trivialities such as moving and breathing were not prerequisites for Casanova over here.

As I said, I was not picky.

Yeah, that’s right. The reason I wrote this was that I read this study that women are pickier than men when it comes to casual sex.

Study.

No f-cking sh-t, Sherlock.

So ladies, if you’re working out for health and well-being, then God bless you.

But, if you’re working out just to get laid, put down that dumbell and pick up a Twinkie.

See you a half hour before last call.

One minute your in the gym pumping iron and the next thing you know
you’re shanghaied and being forced to walk the plank.

Or something very unsavory involving a plank.

Could you survive on a Gay pirate ship?

If so, for how long?

Take the test, big boy.

Maybe they’ll have something for you
to pump besides iron.

. 

I love to lift weights.

Love it, love it, love it.

I love the way it makes me feel after I am done. I love the way it makes me look. I love the fact that if there ever was a fire and I had to sling an average sized person over my shoulder and boogie down a dozen flights of stairs I’d be able to do so. When I was a little kid, I always wanted to grow up to be a man’s man and now, by some accounts, I am. Hooray for me.

Now, due to political correctness. (Why is it correct? Correct according to whom? In another blog on another day I will take all the so-called correctness out of political "Correctness" *spits on pavement*).

I can’t be a man’s man? Why the f-ck not?

Because according to today’s Drudge report Dozens of quangos and taxpayer-funded organizations have ordered a purge of  common words and phrases so as not to cause offense.

That’s right. Not to cause offense.

You think I’m f-cking kidding? I’m not. Read this.

Un-f-cking-believable

I guess I have to be a “person’s person” now, as to not offend women. I’d like to be on a tropical island with some of these women as per my blog. I’d give them a REAL reason to be offended.

I’m always hearing how women are supposed to be so f-cking tough and resilient. Moreso then men (At least according to every national television show and cartoon show that I have TRIED to watch before getting totally fed up after a few minutes and declaring “f-ck this sh-t”, most television is for idiots. It is. If you like television you are probably an idiot. That’s my opinion. Am I offending you? Too f-cking bad. Go watch another episode of American idol. *Spits on pavement*)

Yes, women are so tough, yet their virgin ears can’t stand to hear me use a term like “Man’s man”? (Again, read the f-cking article.)

“Gentleman’s agreement”? That’s a no no. You might ruin some woman’s day. No. Worse. Scar her for life. It’s right there in the article.  I wish I were making this up.

This is a black day for the English language.

Whoa there, Hermie, you can’t use that term either. It’s racist. Says so in the article.

I could see myself at the gym. Unable to lift my usual amount that day and muttering to myself. Oh, this is a black day for me, a black day, indeed.

I could see the four hard core brothers who always work out next to me at the same time every day (They make a LOT of noise and drop the weights loudly and they bounce, bounce, bounce on the rubber mats. Music to my ears. YOU do inclines with 120 pound dumbells and you are ENTITLED to drop those f-ckers as loudly as you want) overhearing me.

“Did you just hear what that sweaty old motherf-cker said, XL (real name)?”
“I sure did, Pharaoh (Real name-he wears that do rag with the thingie hanging out the back that a lot of hard core guys wear).”
“My goodness, I’m offended” says the third.
“We need a group hug.”  The four of them hug and have a good cathartic cry.

I look over.

I’m crestfallen.

These guys were my heroes and now they turn out to be a bunch of homos.

Oh, I’m a horrible person yet AGAIN because I’m not “celebrating” their gayness. Okay then. Give me a party hat and a slice of cake and let the celebration begin. Woo Hoo! Meet you in the steam room in five minutes, fellas, my ass is on the house. Open (pun intended) bar. (The irony here is, if I ever told those guys about ME typing about THEM hugging each other and crying like a bunch of pansys, they’d beat me to a bloody, unrecognizable, Jewish pulp. I’d deserve it, too.)

You can’t say black iron gym anymore. There are so few left anyway, it’s not a big loss. I wonder if calling the men’s locker room the “men’s” locker room will offend women? Why not call one the woman’s locker room and the other the “Other gender’s locker room” as to not offend anybody. Saying “men” will offend these days. Think Firemen. Zap. Gone.

I used to go to the “Boys” club when I was a young urchin in Manhattan. Some of the best memories of my childhood. Now it’s the Boys and Girls club. Zap. I swear to f-cking God. Heartbreaking.

Hey, check this bullsh-t out.

There’s a contingency of women out there who call themselves “womyn” because they don’t want to have any part of the word “MAN” associated with them. Google it.

Why the f-ck doesn’t that offend me?

Because I have bigger fish to fry then to worry about what a few misandrists in Birkenstocks think about me. If they actually liked me, THEN I might be a tad disconcerted.

Okay, so I can’t be a "man’s man" anymore because "people" will find that offensive (see article).

Holy mother of f-ck, I can’t even be Steven Herman anymore!

HerMAN.

MAN.

As of today my name is Steven Herperson. Lose the man, but We can keep the "Her"  part, since we live in a patriarchal society that systemically and institutionally demeans and persecutes women, therefore anything female is good and wonderful and pure and wholesome (Yes, even porn. ESPECIALLY porn) and therefore not offensive. (How the hell did my wife ever got to be President/Worldwide creative director of a major ad agency coming from a lower-middle class background with zero college?  Shut up, Herm, don’t let facts come in the way of the "progressive" agenda).

I can’t believe everyone (that would be all of YOU and definitely NOT me) is letting the 1984 language police stick their noses into the way we communicate (You, not me).

Ooops! Did I say stick their noses? Jews should be offended over this term because of our big noses!

I can’t believe it’s come to this. I look up at the sky.

"Father, why hast thou forsaken me?"

A voice replies.  "Herperson, you sexist bastard. Please use gender neutral terminology. You’re offending me."

Holy Shamoley! I’ve offended God! (I thought progressives don’t believe in God? What gives?)

"Okay, how’s this? Person, why hast thou forsaken me?"

"That’s better, Herperson, but watch your step from now on."

Yeah right.

Watch my f-cking dick. *Spits on pavement*

That’s all.

I don’t like you if you are wearing sneakers and black socks. What’s with the black socks? Come on. Really.

I don’t like you if on your way out of the gym, you stop in the doorway to f-ck with your electrical devise and I have to wait for you to move or ask you. I will just push by. Watch me.

I don’t like you if you see I need to get into my locker right next to yours and you won’t budge your too much pubes, too little dick, fat ass one f-cking inch out of the way to give me access. Move it just a tiny bit. I’m not going to shove you because that would entail having to touch you. You got me there. You win.

I don’t like you if you pace up and down the gym floor like a duck in a shooting gallery while on your cell phone. Stand the f-ck still, douche.

I don’t like you if you stand with your hands on your hips with one leg on a weight, leaning forward while talking to another guy(?) with your face inches from his, chatting each other up. Make your dates at the gay bar down the street.

I don’t like you if you rack your weights loudly on my smith machine in the middle of my set when you can just as easily rack them anywhere, anywhere, anywhere else. The place is huge.

I don’t like you if you see me standing with two sets of DBs right at my feet and you ask my if I’m going to be using them. Come on.

I don’t like you if you integrate ab work in the middle of working out another body part. That’s why your abs suck and mine don’t. Hit abs or don’t hit abs, f-cker. Concentrate and focus. Ab stations upstairs. F-ckin go there and get the job done.

I don’t like you if you are taking an inordinate amount of time while doing an exercise with abysmal form and a pathetic amount of weights while I, who need to take care of business and actually get results, have to wait in the wings. Defer to your betters.

I don’t like you if you are wearing a cut off sleeve shirt/tank top and have neither arm size nor arm definition. And don’t wear shorts. Ever. Just don’t. I CAN wear shorts. I don’t. You shouldn’t. This isn’t the beach. Where, ironically, you wear "shorts" that come down to your ankles.

I don’t like you if you refer to me as dude or bro. Don’t. I’m 48 years old. I am not a dude and I’m not your f-cking brother, thank God.

I don’t like you if you swing your f-cking arms like a spastic and I have to walk around you. You don’t need to swing your arms and if you hit me with your little arms there will be f-cking hell to pay. I guarantee.

I don’t like it if you see me in the locker room mirror, saddle up the me and take off your shirt. That will force me to reluctantly take off MY shirt, mister little 20 something year old sh-t and show you what you ain’t got. Save yourself and your ego and don’t do it. At least not to me.

I don’t like you if you put a 25 pound plate over a 10 pound plate over a 5 pound plate over a 45 pound plate. Put the damn weights back where they belong and don’t make me have to dig through all that crap to get the few plates I need. Damn.

I don’t like you if you ask me how many sets I have left. As many as I need is how many I have left. Go do something else and come back when I’m done, f-cker.

I don’t like you if you shadow box and wing punches between sets at the weight station. They have speedbags, heavy bags, double ended bags and a motherf-cking ring upstairs. Do that f-cking sh-t upstairs, tough guy. Lord forbid you come too close to me with one of those punches. I’m not a heavy bag. I hit back.

I don’t like you if you simply exist, as I am a misanthropic bastard.  You’re already starting in a hole with me, don’t push it. Behave.

I don’t like you if you ask me for a spot, then, after I give your f-cking spot, you look at me like I said something horrible about your mother just because I had the temerity to push you to work it hard. Perish the thought I made you push your wimpy self. Loser.

I don’t like you if you interfere with my workout in any way, shape or form. Afford me the same courtesy that I afford you. Not rocket science.
Basically, I don’t like you and I never will. So don’t f-ck with me and maybe we don’t have to have a God damn scene every f-cking workout.

Okay?

Just give me one and we’ll take it from there. One.

I am not an arrogant, conceited type of fellow, but I do have eyes, beautiful hazel eyes. Yes, I do.

I’m looking at the over 40 bodybuilders of the week and yours truly is not one of them. Amazing.

Go ahead, make your way over to the over 40 bodybuilders of the week section and see if I belong there or not.

The folks at Bodybuiling.com should be falling all over themselves to make me an over 40 bodybuilder of the week.

To add insult to injury, I’m almost 50 and a lot of these lesser mortals are 40, 41, 42. Babies.

To hell with the over 40 bodybuilders of the week, most of whom I blow the f-ck out of the water anyway, how about putting me on the sidebar as a featured member? I keep waiting and waiting and nothing ever happens. This is bullsh-t.

And dig this.

How about the transformation of the week? I started with an astounding transformation when I signed up here (seven weeks), proceeded to do yet another one over the winter and am in the process of doing an unprecedented THIRD mind blowing transformation all within a year.

What in the name of holy f-cking God do these people want me to do to get my props.

Do they want ME, moi, The Herm, to come to THEM, hat in hand, begging for my proper recognition.

As we old Jews like to say, you should live so long.

Bodybuilding.com, when you eventually wake up and smell the f-cking coffee and are ready to give me my well-deserved accolades, you know where you can find me. I’ll be right here.

But it won’t be hat in hand. No, it’ll be something a lot bigger than my God damn hat in my hand.

That’s all.

Come on, let’s not play games here.

What girl on BB.com who’s ever visited my page hasn’t had the fantasy of being stranded on a tropical island with HermtheWorm?

I’m sure all of you THINK that you KNOW what daily life with HermtheWorm would be like.

And you’re right, it would be pure bliss.

That is, pure bliss for me. The master.

On the island of HermtheWorm I’d have to let you know who’s boss from day one.

From f-cking MINUTE one.

The only difference between this video and my treatment of YOU is that I would NOT smack you if you called me a worm.

I’d just sternly remind you that it is MISTER Worm and to NEVER, EVER make that transgression again.

Okay, so I might throw in a friendly kick in the ass or two for good measure.

But you’d get used to it eventually.

It’s the natural order of things.

So here it is.

How you would be treated if you were stranded on a tropical island with me.

Enjoy. I KNOW you would.

You ever see people working out in the gym on the balance ball, buddy?

Whaddya’ say, buddy, yes or no?

Yes, right? You see that f-cking sh-t all the damn time. You bet your sweet ass you do.

Well guess what, buddy.

It’s Jewish.

Yeah, you heard right.

We invented that balancing crap many, many years ago in Russia. I’m not talking your average garden variety Jew here, either. No buddy. I’m talkin’ dressed in black, bearded, thinks bathing and showering is a sin, hard-core f-cking Hasidim, buddy. Dudes that cut a hole in the sheet and schtup their wives though it (I’ve actually done a few fat, ugly chicks in my life that I wish I had used that technique on, oh well, hindsight is 20/20).

Yes.

Hard. Core. Jews.

Every time you see someone on one of those balance balls and think that that sh-t is gay, you’re wrong.

It’s Jewish.

Let the gays collect a commission every time someone gets reamed in the shower…Or is it in the ass? Oh, in the shower and in the ass. Bend over and pick up the Irish Spring. Manly yes, but I like it, too. Gotcha’.

We ain’t got no problem with that, but that balance sh-t? That’s ours.

Yeah, WE came up with the whole balance equals fitness thing and we did it the hard way. We walked around the room with bottles balanced our heads.

No, that is NOT a typo. Bottles on our f-cking heads.

Not only that, we invented doing walking lunges with bottles on our heads.

Can you do that? Didn’t think so.

But…

Did we see one red cent for our contribution to this whole balance for fitness craze, buddy? One red cent?

No. Nothing.

Well, the kosher chickens have come home to roost and I want my commission, buddy.

That’s right. At the last annual Jewish conspiracy meeting for total Zionist world domination, my Jewish brethren elected yours truly to collect our commission ANY time anyone does ANYTHING for fitness that involves balance.

I got my God damn Paypal account set up. You better pay me, HermtheWorm, or get your goy ass the f-ck off that balance ball.

I got a team of evil Jew laywers (Is there any other kind?) just chomping at the bit to collect what’s coming to us.

Do you know what those curly sideburns that we wear are called, buddy ?

Payis. (F-cking Google the sh-t if you don’t believe me.)

…And that’s what we want you to do.

Pay. Us.

We just want what is coming to us, Buddy, that’s all.

Oh, and everything else too.

Shalom.

Economic times are tough these days, and here I am working out like a fiend and dieting like a monk with no money to show for it.

Why not make some money off this body? (I know what everybody’s thinking about now, "Spoken like a true Jew, Herm.")

I think I could be a stripper.

I’ve checked out a lot of male stripper websites to see how I stack up and I stack up.

Most of them are my bitches.

The problem is, I’m a little too shy to do that sort of thing. If only I could hide my face or wear some sort of Zorro mask or maybe even disguise myself with make-up like the rock group Kiss and then…

Wait a second…Herm, you genius, what did you just say?

Wear a mask like Zorro?

No, no, the other thing.

Wear make-up like the rock group Kiss?’

Yes, Herm, yes! You nailed it! Besides, Gene Simmons is a shameless Jew,  just like you. Why the hell not?

Why not? Because I can’t sing or play an instrument, that’s why not.

No, Herm, use your noodle. The make-up. You can dress up like a clown!

Nah, not me. I’m not too fond of kids. You couldn’t pay me enough to work kiddie partys.

No, Herm, no! Not kiddie partys.

Bachelorette partys.

Dress up in clown make-up. No shirt. Thong. Big floppy shoes. You already have something big and floppy to go with the shoes. And don’t forget the nose thing. Make sure you get one that honks. Think you could make your wiener honk? No? We’ll work on it.

I can see it now…

Hermo The Clown.

Hermo the Perverted Clown. You’ll be a hit!

Picture this: You can come to the party with two horny little monkeys dressed in tutus. You can slip a few Viagras into their monkey chow pre-party time and they can bounce around the room screeching and masturbating while you do your perverted clown tricks for the gals.

Wouldn’t that be something?

You could pull a bouquet of flowers out of your ass and give it to the bride to be. I can see the cameras clicking and the videocams rolling. These are Kodak moments, Herm.

You know how clowns make balloon sculptures?

Herm, you can do it with your wiener. Yes, it will hurt a little, but get in touch with your inner Jew. It’s for a good cause. Making money. What better cause is there than that?

Think about it. You can act stupid, and perverted. You’ve been doing that your whole life. Now you can actually get paid for it.

God bless America.

You can do somersaults, handstands, light yourself on fire. All that good stuff.

Hermo the Perverted Clown.

Jesus, why did it take me so long to think of this?