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Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS

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  • Mr. Magazine Time was a piece of work, but Roger* was a masterpiece.

    We bussed tables at a dinner theater while I was in college. Neither of us had two dimes to rub together, but that was because all of my cash went to tuition, and all of his went to the man behind the counter in the liquor store for specialty X-rated magazines. They were on a first-name basis. Roger felt no shame in bringing those magazines to work and paging through them in our break room, telling us that he got them for the articles. Then he would carefully remove the centerfold, slip out the door into the night, and attach it to someone’s windshield.

    He was in his mid-20s, single**, with abysmal personal hygiene and habits. But it was hard to dislike Roger, who readily expressed what the rest of us were trying to hide under professionalism. He hated management for not promoting him to waiter. He hated the waiters for skinning us on our share of tips. He hated the customers for being rude and demanding. Roger said what we were all thinking; he was our emotional outlet for a frustrating, poorly paid, and exhausting job.

    At one in the morning, as I dragged heavy bags of soiled linens to the door, and as the others picked crumbs off the carpet and reset tables, Roger would take some classic song from the production of the season (such as Fiddler on the Roof), tip his head back, and bray it off-key at the top of his lungs, substituting his own filthy lyrics for the real ones. When we cheered encore, he would bow his head and claim to be shy. We never got more than one song a shift, and never the same song twice.

    During the second act of the show each shift, while ten of us crowded into the tiny break room to fold napkins, he would teach his personal philosophies and regale us with tales of his lady conquests. No one could imagine any woman going home with Roger, but we listened since he was entertaining in his philosophies and in his delusions of sex appeal, wheeling vivid, colorful stories around the dingy, cramped room, and making us forget our misery in the joyful gutter of his mind.

    One night, while we entered the break room with napkins, complaining about how we all needed to wash our clothes later, he shared his philosophy of laundry. We eagerly took seats for some new nastiness to spill forth, and he did not disappoint. Roger visited the Laundromat once every two months***. We spluttered and said that we didn’t have sixty pairs of underwear, and just how many pairs of underwear did he own? This led to his next revelation: one.

    One. Roger coyly showed us the upper portion of sky blue boxers covered in white polka dots, and he stopped lowering his pants because there was a rip farther down. A braver soul than I asked if he wore them sixty days straight, and Roger said no, he had a system. Pulling up his pants and sitting to fold napkins, he said, “The first two weeks, I wear ‘em normal. The next two weeks, I wear ‘em inside out. The two weeks after that, I wear ‘em right side out again, ‘cause I figure that they’ve aired.”

    The brave soul said faintly, “And then you wear them inside out again for the last two weeks?”
    “Hell, no!” Roger cried. “That would be gross! The last two weeks, I wear nothing at all. Then I go to the Laundromat. It’s my system.”

    The break room was dead silent, all of us thinking the same thing. Roger was deluded in his stories of busty blonde twins and sexy librarians going home with him every night, but his philosophies were always the honest truth of his life. He made one pair of underpants last for two months, and now he was asking us to guess which of the first three stages of his system he was in tonight. Thankfully, our boss entered the break room right then, so the question remained forever unanswered.
    JOIN THE PANDA SHOW!!! Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS and PANDALOONERY!

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    • UPDATE: (in explanation of *, **, and ***)

      * Names have been changed to protect the disgusting.

      ** He never understood why the waitresses didn’t want to go out with him, but I’m sure that the time he busted through the door with his hand down the back of his pants, shouting, “I’VE GOT AN ITCH IN A SENSITIVE AREA!” as he scratched enthusiastically, had something to do with it.

      *** This is 100% confirmed by Gay Panda, because we were later housemates for two months. In that time, he visited the Laundromat a grand total of once. We went together. One pair, people. One.
      JOIN THE PANDA SHOW!!! Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS and PANDALOONERY!

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      • lol panda, you make my day

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        • the stories from this thread would make a magnificent tv series by the way... any tv groks out there want to make it happen?

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          • I enjoy these stories as well. I have had a bad few days and reading this journal has been the only thing to bring me out of my crappy mood. Thank you

            ps, Roger is disgusting!

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            • I'm not going to lie, I've worn underwear right-side out one day then wrong-side out the next. But only when backpacking or some other outdoor activity where the space/weight that one pair of underwear takes up is actually important for other things. Weeks on end though is a stretch.
              My Primal Journal

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              • i can only imagine the skid marks permanently ingrained on that fabric
                beautiful
                yeah you are

                Baby if you time travel back far enough you can avoid that work because the dust won't be there. You're too pretty to be working that hard.
                lol

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                • Oh, Roger's Underwear System. All these years and I remember it like yesterday. Actually, better than yesterday. UGH.

                  Well, vote YES again and I'll post the story of Roger's Sock of Grime and Terror tomorrow. Just three votes and you can share another psychic scar with Gay Panda!!! Hooray!!!
                  JOIN THE PANDA SHOW!!! Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS and PANDALOONERY!

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                  • Never say No to Panda. I vote a resounding YES please!

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                    • I vote yes, but I dearly hope the sock in question es not turn out to be Roger's wanking sock!

                      PS- I saw Cabury Screme Eggs at Morrisons yesterday, out for Halloween. I stead of yellow goo inside, it is green! And the foil around the egg is suitably spooky.

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                      • As you know, I take primal direction from the kitty. Most of the time, this works out in my favor. I eat what she eats: bacon. I drink what she drinks: water. But, unfortunately, I think that she may have been leading me astray in a third arena of primal: exercise. I do what the kitty does: largely nothing. When she’s not chasing Benign Poltergeist, the kitty lays on the sofa with her head upside-down.

                        I weighed myself and was delighted to see 187.8 pounds of panda. However, my scale also estimates muscle, and that number has gone down. For a moment I was defiant: frankly, a part of me doesn’t care. Weight has been such a sore spot for so many years that if some muscle loss is what it takes to make me not a tick, then muscle loss it is. I am that damned tired of being fat. Then I backtrack, because nothing is fabulous about achieving a weak noodle 166.

                        I wake up daily with good intentions about exercise, and then I go to my books and make my characters exercise instead. It doesn’t transfer. Very occasionally, I walk on the primal treadmill*. I look at my tubby tabby, who has packed 13.2 pounds onto an 8-pound frame, and ponder if maybe I shouldn’t find another primal coach.

                        I loathe exercise, and I truly despise being in nature, and Chronic Cardio burned me out down to the level of the soul. So exercise falls by the wayside easily. But I don’t want to be a weakling, so after seeing my muscle loss, I got into my gym clothes and took the Netflix to the mailbox down the road for my sun exposure and nature time, and then I came back inside and turned on my treadmill.

                        It is hard for me to disentangle exercise from weight loss. I’ve spent years using one in the service of the other, and they are linked in my mind like 2 + 2 = 4. I used to exercise hard for 90-minute sessions, and I associate exercise with misery and boredom. So I limited myself to 30 minutes of walking at a slow pace, with three 30-second sprints. My iPhone supplied me with Katy Perry’s Last Friday Night, and I hit repeat over and over since the song circles happy faces on my feelings charts.

                        It was over quickly and painlessly enough, but I’m also supposed to lift something heavy. The filing cabinet is too heavy. The foam roller is too light. It’s better that I don’t touch the printer. Lady Friend manages my electronics since I maxed out at plugs and sockets, and so I also leave alone the router and modem, whichever is which. I wander through my kitchen, crossing objects off as too heavy or too light or too unwieldy or too edible, and walk into my living room. Primal Coach Kitty is lazing on the sofa, her big belly turned up to Valhalla and her head upside-down. We contemplate each other.

                        “You weigh 13.2 pounds,” I say. Not too heavy, not too light, not too unwieldy, not too edible, and I’m allowed to touch the kitty**. Setting my cell to play Last Friday Night one more time, I scoop her up and we dance around the living room. This works both my biceps and triceps, and sharpens my reflexes as the kitty tries to escape since she prefers Lady Gaga. I promised her Judas tomorrow.
                        JOIN THE PANDA SHOW!!! Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS and PANDALOONERY!

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                        • UPDATE:
                          (in explanation of *) Since I detest going outside, I have made my treadmill primal by hanging a gorgeous iridescent copper-coated maple leaf ornament in the window right next to the display. And while I walk, I can look out and see Avada Kedavra and her cohorts pecking down the driveway. Bird watching is also primal. Darlings, Gay Panda can justify ANYTHING.

                          (in explanation of **) Probably not for long, though. I know that you’re monitoring this journal, New York City ASPCA! You’re loading your van right now with cameras and nets, and getting directions from Cha-Cha to Gay Panda’s house so that I can star in an episode of Animal Precinct. But may I ask for a favor? Please wait until I weigh 156. The camera adds ten pounds.
                          JOIN THE PANDA SHOW!!! Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS and PANDALOONERY!

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                          • Assuming you type and don't write your stories, is there anyway you could make a mount to type while you walk in the treadmill for ~45 min a day? It's something, at least.
                            Depression Lies

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                            • Take this as the third YES on the sock story! And what does it say about me that I felt better when I found out he wore boxers instead of briefs??

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                              • We've gotten our three YES votes! The story of the Sock of Grime and Terror will be written now and should be posted by 11 a.m. Pacific Standard Time. It will likely be in two parts, so get comfy, ducklings, for a long tale of nasty.

                                Oh, and those looking for love? Should you find earthy charm in Roger's masculine wiles, I am very sure that he still flies solo in the romantic department. Gay Panda can be your matchmaker!!!
                                JOIN THE PANDA SHOW!!! Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS and PANDALOONERY!

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