Pinch an Inch – (Gym Disaster #1)

Shoulder exercise + flailing penis = PAIN.

Trust me on this one.

My shoulder injury is somewhat related to the fact that I enjoy going to the gym.

I love going to the gym.

It changed me from a standard pipsqueak…

AAARGHHH!!!

Holy sh*t.

…that was f*cking scary.

Barry.

Ok…

…so the gym changed me from a standard pipsqueak…

…to a pipsqueak with muscles.


(the chicks DO love their muscled short guys…

…at least, this is what I tell myself. Please, people, don’t take this away from me.)

Anyway…

…going to the gym eventually helped f*ck up my shoulder…

…requiring me to get cortisone shots.

And I F*CKING HATE needles.

(not sure if you knew that…but I like to press the point)

Anyway…back to the gym…

When you’re just a hair over five feet tall, you’re not exactly “OH MY GOD” head turning material for the ladies.

Unless it’s like:

“Oh my God…he’s like a man…only SMALLER.”

As such, I’ve had to make up some ground by hitting the gym.

Hey…SOMETHING had to work.

When you can’t go up, go OUT.

Anyway, I’ve never really had any bad gym injury experiences except for one (that will be “Story #2“).

But I’ve watched it happen to other people.

..and this…sometimes…

…can be fun to watch.

Here we go…

Story #1: Pinch an Inch

A few years ago, my buddy Rob and I were in the gym at work.

Anyway…

It was “shoulder” day.

One of these exercises we did was called “lateral raises.”

A lateral raise entails taking a dumbbell in each hand…

…raising them up and out to your sides…

…and then bringing them back down in front of you.

(end of personal training session – that will be $85, please)

Weight goes up.

Weight goes down.

Easy enough.

Rob was doing this with 20 pound dumbbells in each hand.

As such, Rob was kind of swinging the dumbbells up to his sides, then bringing them back down quickly.

Weight goes up.

*GRUNT*

Weight comes crashing down.

*CLANK!!*

Weight goes up.

*GRUNT*

Weight comes crashing down.

*CLANK!!*

You’d hear the “clank” of the iron as the weights met each other at the bottom of his movement…

…hands in front of his waist.

Yeah, you’d hear the “clank.”

Except…

…for the last time he did it.

You see…

Rob is a “commando” kind of guy.

He floats free.

No underwear.

His bits and pieces bobbling ever so happily in his sweatpants.

(On a side note, I’ve tried this myself but can’t get my junk to stop sticking to my legs.

STUPID sticky balls! WHY WON’T YOU LET ME BE FREE?!?!?

So I don’t try going commando anymore unless it’s fishstick day in the cafeteria.

…you wouldn’t understand.)

…but I digress…

So there’s Rob…doing his lateral raises…

…wiggly and berries bouncing around in there like they’re listening to the BackStreet Boys…

..and…during his last rep…well…

His..um..“member” happened to jump in the way of the weights.

Weights go up.

*GRUNT*

Weights come down.

As the weights came down in his hands…there was no “clank.”

Just a soft….

*thunk*

Yeah, guys.

*thunk*

Apparently, “thunk” is the sound of two dumbbells crashing into a penis…

40 pounds of force pinching a twig.

…and he dropped…

…like a ROCK.

(Right now…my male readers who are not eunichs are all crossing their legs in pain)

Rob: “ARRRGGGHHH!!!…OOOOOHHH!!”

(string of expletives and some gurgling noises follow)

This writhing, moaning and screaming continues for a few minutes…

…while I stand there…holding my own package in a fit of “Pain by Proxy.”

…finally…he manages to catch his breath…

…he opens his sweatpants to view the carnage…

…and says to me:

“Oh MY GOD…LOOK AT THIS!“

Ummm…

…Rob…?

I don’t want to look at it.

I don’t want to look at ANY man’s love-dangle and goo-cherries…

…let alone look at mangled ones.

But…

…friends being friends, sometimes you have to examine each others broken penis.

(this is what I tell myself to keep from having nightmares about it)

Folks…it was NOT PRETTY.

A road-rashed, splintered and bleeding penis is, by my account, NOT attractive.

I don’t think he’s done a lateral raise since.

That poor, poor bastard.

But at least he didn’t have to get a cortisone shot in his sack.

Actually…

I’d rather have the shot.

http://www.midgetmanofsteel.com

Pinch an Inch – (Gym Disaster #1)

Shoulder exercise + flailing penis = PAIN.

Trust me on this one.

My shoulder injury is somewhat related to the fact that I enjoy going to the gym.

I love going to the gym.

It changed me from a standard pipsqueak…

AAARGHHH!!!

Holy sh*t.

…that was f*cking scary.

Barry.

Ok…

…so the gym changed me from a standard pipsqueak…

…to a pipsqueak with muscles.


(the chicks DO love their muscled short guys…

…at least, this is what I tell myself. Please, people, don’t take this away from me.)

Anyway…

…going to the gym eventually helped f*ck up my shoulder…

…requiring me to get cortisone shots.

And I F*CKING HATE needles.

(not sure if you knew that…but I like to press the point)

Anyway…back to the gym…

When you’re just a hair over five feet tall, you’re not exactly “OH MY GOD” head turning material for the ladies.

Unless it’s like:

“Oh my God…he’s like a man…only SMALLER.”

As such, I’ve had to make up some ground by hitting the gym.

Hey…SOMETHING had to work.

When you can’t go up, go OUT.

Anyway, I’ve never really had any bad gym injury experiences except for one (that will be “Story #2“).

But I’ve watched it happen to other people.

..and this…sometimes…

…can be fun to watch.

Here we go…

Story #1: Pinch an Inch

A few years ago, my buddy Rob and I were in the gym at work.

Anyway…

It was “shoulder” day.

One of these exercises we did was called “lateral raises.”

A lateral raise entails taking a dumbbell in each hand…

…raising them up and out to your sides…

…and then bringing them back down in front of you.

(end of personal training session – that will be $85, please)

Weight goes up.

Weight goes down.

Easy enough.

Rob was doing this with 20 pound dumbbells in each hand.

As such, Rob was kind of swinging the dumbbells up to his sides, then bringing them back down quickly.

Weight goes up.

*GRUNT*

Weight comes crashing down.

*CLANK!!*

Weight goes up.

*GRUNT*

Weight comes crashing down.

*CLANK!!*

You’d hear the “clank” of the iron as the weights met each other at the bottom of his movement…

…hands in front of his waist.

Yeah, you’d hear the “clank.”

Except…

…for the last time he did it.

You see…

Rob is a “commando” kind of guy.

He floats free.

No underwear.

His bits and pieces bobbling ever so happily in his sweatpants.

(On a side note, I’ve tried this myself but can’t get my junk to stop sticking to my legs.

STUPID sticky balls! WHY WON’T YOU LET ME BE FREE?!?!?

So I don’t try going commando anymore unless it’s fishstick day in the cafeteria.

…you wouldn’t understand.)

…but I digress…

So there’s Rob…doing his lateral raises…

…wiggly and berries bouncing around in there like they’re listening to the BackStreet Boys…

..and…during his last rep…well…

His..um..“member” happened to jump in the way of the weights.

Weights go up.

*GRUNT*

Weights come down.

As the weights came down in his hands…there was no “clank.”

Just a soft….

*thunk*

Yeah, guys.

*thunk*

Apparently, “thunk” is the sound of two dumbbells crashing into a penis…

40 pounds of force pinching a twig.

…and he dropped…

…like a ROCK.

(Right now…my male readers who are not eunichs are all crossing their legs in pain)

Rob: “ARRRGGGHHH!!!…OOOOOHHH!!”

(string of expletives and some gurgling noises follow)

This writhing, moaning and screaming continues for a few minutes…

…while I stand there…holding my own package in a fit of “Pain by Proxy.”

…finally…he manages to catch his breath…

…he opens his sweatpants to view the carnage…

…and says to me:

“Oh MY GOD…LOOK AT THIS!“

Ummm…

…Rob…?

I don’t want to look at it.

I don’t want to look at ANY man’s love-dangle and goo-cherries…

…let alone look at mangled ones.

But…

…friends being friends, sometimes you have to examine each others broken penis.

(this is what I tell myself to keep from having nightmares about it)

Folks…it was NOT PRETTY.

A road-rashed, splintered and bleeding penis is, by my account, NOT attractive.

I don’t think he’s done a lateral raise since.

That poor, poor bastard.

But at least he didn’t have to get a cortisone shot in his sack.

Actually…

I’d rather have the shot.

http://midgetmanofsteel.blogspot.com

Pinch an Inch – (Gym Disaster #1)

Shoulder exercise + flailing penis = PAIN.

Trust me on this one.

My shoulder injury is somewhat related to the fact that I enjoy going to the gym.

I love going to the gym.

It changed me from a standard pipsqueak…

AAARGHHH!!!

Holy sh*t.

…that was f*cking scary.

Barry.

Ok…

…so the gym changed me from a standard pipsqueak…

…to a pipsqueak with muscles.


(the chicks DO love their muscled short guys…

…at least, this is what I tell myself. Please, people, don’t take this away from me.)

Anyway…

…going to the gym eventually helped f*ck up my shoulder…

…requiring me to get cortisone shots.

And I F*CKING HATE needles.

(not sure if you knew that…but I like to press the point)

Anyway…back to the gym…

When you’re just a hair over five feet tall, you’re not exactly “OH MY GOD” head turning material for the ladies.

Unless it’s like:

“Oh my God…he’s like a man…only SMALLER.”

As such, I’ve had to make up some ground by hitting the gym.

Hey…SOMETHING had to work.

When you can’t go up, go OUT.

Anyway, I’ve never really had any bad gym injury experiences except for one (that will be “Story #2“).

But I’ve watched it happen to other people.

..and this…sometimes…

…can be fun to watch.

Here we go…

Story #1: Pinch an Inch

A few years ago, my buddy Rob and I were in the gym at work.

Anyway…

It was “shoulder” day.

One of these exercises we did was called “lateral raises.”

A lateral raise entails taking a dumbbell in each hand…

…raising them up and out to your sides…

…and then bringing them back down in front of you.

(end of personal training session – that will be $85, please)

Weight goes up.

Weight goes down.

Easy enough.

Rob was doing this with 20 pound dumbbells in each hand.

As such, Rob was kind of swinging the dumbbells up to his sides, then bringing them back down quickly.

Weight goes up.

*GRUNT*

Weight comes crashing down.

*CLANK!!*

Weight goes up.

*GRUNT*

Weight comes crashing down.

*CLANK!!*

You’d hear the “clank” of the iron as the weights met each other at the bottom of his movement…

…hands in front of his waist.

Yeah, you’d hear the “clank.”

Except…

…for the last time he did it.

You see…

Rob is a “commando” kind of guy.

He floats free.

No underwear.

His bits and pieces bobbling ever so happily in his sweatpants.

(On a side note, I’ve tried this myself but can’t get my junk to stop sticking to my legs.

STUPID sticky balls! WHY WON’T YOU LET ME BE FREE?!?!?

So I don’t try going commando anymore unless it’s fishstick day in the cafeteria.

…you wouldn’t understand.)

…but I digress…

So there’s Rob…doing his lateral raises…

…wiggly and berries bouncing around in there like they’re listening to the BackStreet Boys…

..and…during his last rep…well…

His..um..“member” happened to jump in the way of the weights.

Weights go up.

*GRUNT*

Weights come down.

As the weights came down in his hands…there was no “clank.”

Just a soft….

*thunk*

Yeah, guys.

*thunk*

Apparently, “thunk” is the sound of two dumbbells crashing into a penis…

40 pounds of force pinching a twig.

…and he dropped…

…like a ROCK.

(Right now…my male readers who are not eunichs are all crossing their legs in pain)

Rob: “ARRRGGGHHH!!!…OOOOOHHH!!”

(string of expletives and some gurgling noises follow)

This writhing, moaning and screaming continues for a few minutes…

…while I stand there…holding my own package in a fit of “Pain by Proxy.”

…finally…he manages to catch his breath…

…he opens his sweatpants to view the carnage…

…and says to me:

“Oh MY GOD…LOOK AT THIS!“

Ummm…

…Rob…?

I don’t want to look at it.

I don’t want to look at ANY man’s love-dangle and goo-cherries…

…let alone look at mangled ones.

But…

…friends being friends, sometimes you have to examine each others broken penis.

(this is what I tell myself to keep from having nightmares about it)

Folks…it was NOT PRETTY.

A road-rashed, splintered and bleeding penis is, by my account, NOT attractive.

I don’t think he’s done a lateral raise since.

That poor, poor bastard.

But at least he didn’t have to get a cortisone shot in his sack.

Actually…

I’d rather have the shot.

http://midgetmanofsteel.blogspot.com

My Post is Really Long…I Should Whack it for Some Candy.

“It’s too long” she said.

I know…I know.

…but it only gets this long when I’m really excited.

Ahem…

My blog post…she meant.

I’ve been chastised lately for my posts being too long.

Mind you…

…this is the first time I’ve EVER been accused of having ANYTHING that was too long…so I’m going to relish this moment.

I don’t like criticism:

Commenter: “Hey, just wanted to drop you a friendly note and let you know that I think your posts are too long.”

The Proper comment:
“Thank you, I’ll take this under advisement.”

Actual comment:
“My posts are too long? So are your boobs. They look like they dropped something on the ground and are searching for it. Also, you smell like old fish. Go clean yourself up…preferably with something acidic.”

Criticism + me = bitchy me.

So, in an effort to make nice with this f*cking ass-eating douchebag (sh*t..there I go again), I’ll be making a concerted drive towards shorter posts.

Unfortunately, most of my stories take a while to tell…

…as such…

…in the future, you may see “The Chronicles of…” or “…Part One” in some of my titles.

Example Title:

“My Ass Itches…Not in a Scratchy Way…More Like a ‘Finger in the Hole Digging Around’ Kinda Way…Part One“

(“Part Two” involves a ladle and some whipping cream)

(this is also a reminder for myself here to wash my hands fairly soon)

If you like things the way they are, let me know. Otherwise, you’re going to start getting shortened versions.

…much like my stature.

OKAY…On to a topic:

My Icky Sticky Advent Calendar Update:

Well…I’ve done it.

I’ve gone through the motions of ejecting my little swimmers at least 25 times as recommended by my Urologist post-vasectomy.

25 times I made a squishy-eating-lemon face and then went:

“GAAAHHHHhh….Guuuuhhhh…Zzzzzzzzzz“

25 times.

My dog is SO pissed at me.

(reminder to myself to give the dog a well-needed bath)

The thing is, I’m not sure if there are any swimmers actually ALIVE in there or not.

To make sure, I have my follow-up appointment next week…

…where I have to bring in a sample of goo.

What’s weird is that I had to SCHEDULE this.

I had to schedule the drop-off of my own drop-offs.

I’m having two problems with this:

1) I’ve forgotten what day my appointment is.

This means that I very may well show up with a cupful of “little Rodney’s” on a day they’re not expecting it.

(it’s always funny to surprise girls with an unexpected sperm delivery)

Me (handing her Moog-spooge): “Here you go!”

Nurse (surprised): “UGH!!…Why didn’t you warn me?!? I wasn’t expecting you to…Why didn’t you tell me you were going to…OH GOD…Ugh!!”

It’s funnier to surprise women this way in the bedroom (guys..TRY IT AT HOME!), but I’m extrapolating that experience to my office visit.

I’ve also just coined a new phrase:

Moog + spooge = Mooge

Mooge.

Anyway…

I’ve been trying to call them to find out when I’m supposed to be there…but there’s no answer.

As such, I may have to just show up every day with a new Cup-A-Mooge (Patent Pending).

Man…I’m gonna be tired.

2) I now have the pressure of creating a “fresh” sample prior to my leaving the house in the morning.

They only accept these things in the morning between 7:30 and 8:00 a.m.

I’m NOT a morning person.

I can barely get my ass out of bed, let alone get my wiggly all jacked up and ready to fire.

Plus…

This means that I probably have to go all postal on my penis while my kids are downstairs eating Apple Jacks…

…blissfully unaware that just 12 steps up, is their father…

…a cup in one hand…

…his little pee-pee in the other…

…beating the bejeesus out of it…

…while reading a Cosmo.

(Ugh. If there’s ONE picture of Renee Zellweger in that issue, there’s no way I’ll be able to finish. It’s like looking at the bottom of a foot. Penis down. Game Over.)

Also, I’ve been wondering if I could “harvest my Mooge” ahead of time…

…and how far ahead I can do it…

Me (handing over Mooge sample): “Here you go.”

The nurse takes the cup, and looks inside…

…where it slightly resembles the cracked dry surface of the Sahara Desert.

…lint is strewn across the surface.

Nurse: “Um…when did you make this?”

Me: “Last week after bowling.”

Nurse: “Um…I think it’s too old…you’ll..”

Me: “Listen, there’s NO way you can stick your fingers in all those little bowling ball holes and NOT feel SOMETHING in your loins. COME ON.”

*blink*

Perchance I’ve said too much.

…anyway…

They also told me NOT refrigerate it.

Um…

NO PROBLEM.

I don’t even like broccoli in my fridge…

…damned certain I’m not going to be placing my genital fluids in there.

Houseguest: “What is this? Eggnog? Eggnog with a hint of…what is that…English Muffin Pizzas? Mmmm…It’s goooood.”

So..no refrigeration..

They’ll need a fresher sample, I guess.

Hmmm…

I wonder what time bowling opens.

http://www.midgetmanofsteel.com

My Post is Really Long…I Should Whack it for Some Candy.

“It’s too long” she said.

I know…I know.

…but it only gets this long when I’m really excited.

Ahem…

My blog post…she meant.

I’ve been chastised lately for my posts being too long.

Mind you…

…this is the first time I’ve EVER been accused of having ANYTHING that was too long…so I’m going to relish this moment.

I don’t like criticism:

Commenter: “Hey, just wanted to drop you a friendly note and let you know that I think your posts are too long.”

The Proper comment:
“Thank you, I’ll take this under advisement.”

Actual comment:
“My posts are too long? So are your boobs. They look like they dropped something on the ground and are searching for it. Also, you smell like old fish. Go clean yourself up…preferably with something acidic.”

Criticism + me = bitchy me.

So, in an effort to make nice with this f*cking ass-eating douchebag (sh*t..there I go again), I’ll be making a concerted drive towards shorter posts.

Unfortunately, most of my stories take a while to tell…

…as such…

…in the future, you may see “The Chronicles of…” or “…Part One” in some of my titles.

Example Title:

“My Ass Itches…Not in a Scratchy Way…More Like a ‘Finger in the Hole Digging Around’ Kinda Way…Part One“

(“Part Two” involves a ladle and some whipping cream)

(this is also a reminder for myself here to wash my hands fairly soon)

If you like things the way they are, let me know. Otherwise, you’re going to start getting shortened versions.

…much like my stature.

OKAY…On to a topic:

My Icky Sticky Advent Calendar Update:

Well…I’ve done it.

I’ve gone through the motions of ejecting my little swimmers at least 25 times as recommended by my Urologist post-vasectomy.

25 times I made a squishy-eating-lemon face and then went:

“GAAAHHHHhh….Guuuuhhhh…Zzzzzzzzzz“

25 times.

My dog is SO pissed at me.

(reminder to myself to give the dog a well-needed bath)

The thing is, I’m not sure if there are any swimmers actually ALIVE in there or not.

To make sure, I have my follow-up appointment next week…

…where I have to bring in a sample of goo.

What’s weird is that I had to SCHEDULE this.

I had to schedule the drop-off of my own drop-offs.

I’m having two problems with this:

1) I’ve forgotten what day my appointment is.

This means that I very may well show up with a cupful of “little Rodney’s” on a day they’re not expecting it.

(it’s always funny to surprise girls with an unexpected sperm delivery)

Me (handing her Moog-spooge): “Here you go!”

Nurse (surprised): “UGH!!…Why didn’t you warn me?!? I wasn’t expecting you to…Why didn’t you tell me you were going to…OH GOD…Ugh!!”

It’s funnier to surprise women this way in the bedroom (guys..TRY IT AT HOME!), but I’m extrapolating that experience to my office visit.

I’ve also just coined a new phrase:

Moog + spooge = Mooge

Mooge.

Anyway…

I’ve been trying to call them to find out when I’m supposed to be there…but there’s no answer.

As such, I may have to just show up every day with a new Cup-A-Mooge (Patent Pending).

Man…I’m gonna be tired.

2) I now have the pressure of creating a “fresh” sample prior to my leaving the house in the morning.

They only accept these things in the morning between 7:30 and 8:00 a.m.

I’m NOT a morning person.

I can barely get my ass out of bed, let alone get my wiggly all jacked up and ready to fire.

Plus…

This means that I probably have to go all postal on my penis while my kids are downstairs eating Apple Jacks…

…blissfully unaware that just 12 steps up, is their father…

…a cup in one hand…

…his little pee-pee in the other…

…beating the bejeesus out of it…

…while reading a Cosmo.

(Ugh. If there’s ONE picture of Renee Zellweger in that issue, there’s no way I’ll be able to finish. It’s like looking at the bottom of a foot. Penis down. Game Over.)

Also, I’ve been wondering if I could “harvest my Mooge” ahead of time…

…and how far ahead I can do it…

Me (handing over Mooge sample): “Here you go.”

The nurse takes the cup, and looks inside…

…where it slightly resembles the cracked dry surface of the Sahara Desert.

…lint is strewn across the surface.

Nurse: “Um…when did you make this?”

Me: “Last week after bowling.”

Nurse: “Um…I think it’s too old…you’ll..”

Me: “Listen, there’s NO way you can stick your fingers in all those little bowling ball holes and NOT feel SOMETHING in your loins. COME ON.”

*blink*

Perchance I’ve said too much.

…anyway…

They also told me NOT refrigerate it.

Um…

NO PROBLEM.

I don’t even like broccoli in my fridge…

…damned certain I’m not going to be placing my genital fluids in there.

Houseguest: “What is this? Eggnog? Eggnog with a hint of…what is that…English Muffin Pizzas? Mmmm…It’s goooood.”

So..no refrigeration..

They’ll need a fresher sample, I guess.

Hmmm…

I wonder what time bowling opens.

http://midgetmanofsteel.blogspot.com