We pretend that we’re dead

Fuck you fog horn.

I hear its hateful voice across the city. Ignore the beautiful sunny weather, it says. It soon will pass.


Thanks for spoiling my afternoon, you soulless harbinger of despair.


Saturday, though, Saturday the good weather stuck it out. We went out without jackets, and I can count the times I’ve left the house sans-jacket on one hand. To the Legion of Honor in the morning, barbecue and drunken football all afternoon, tapas for dinner and samba at La Pena till 3 AM. And not one breath of cold air, not one wisp of fog the whole time. Magnificent.

I woke at dawn the next day, sunscorched and utterly wiped out. My ears ached from the drums. I watched out the window, saw the cold grey soulcrushing fucking endless SF cloud quagmire rolling in. Yesterday must have been a hallucination, I thought. The fevered dream of a desperate, Vitamin D starved agoraphobe, holed up in his apartment since last August.



400 kicks.
300 situps.
100 pushups.

Run three miles.

400 more kicks.
More situps.
Handstand pushups.

Get strong.
Get fast.
Day in.
Day out.

I lay spread eagle on the hardwood academy floor, gasping and sweaty. My chest heaves. All I can hear is the desperate oxygen-starved thump of my heart.

“Get up Trevor, time for more macacos.”
“Don’t you want to get in shape?”
“Just a few more.”

It’s always just a few more. We were discussing it after class, this whole ‘fitness’ shit.

“It doesn’t seem to matter how much I train, I’m never in good enough shape.”
“Yeah, it’s a losing battle man. That’s the nature of the game.”
“Whatever, you’re both skinny.”
“Ok why don’t people realize that skinny does not equal fit.”
“Yeah me being skinny doesn’t have anything to do with my level of athletic discipline. I’m not skinny because I work out, I’m skinny because Jesus loves me and wants me to be attractive, and have hella chicks.”
“Haha fuck you man.”
“I’m serious! Obviously God hates you or he wouldn’t have made you fat.”
“Fuck it guys, let’s just take steroids.”
“Here here!”
“Amen! Time to start juicing.”
“No such thing as a capoeira drug test.”
“Pfft if they made you pass a drug test before you got in a roda, capoeira would die out in two fucking hours.”
“Let’s go get some pizza first.”

We laugh about it but the dammit this is serious stuff. It never ends. Takes me three months to get in any kind of shape, and if I take a week off I’m back to square one.

I blame my sedentary lifestyle. Destiny, Progress and Economic Necessity have ordained that I sit on my ass chained to a computer at least ten hours a day. Had I been born in an earlier age, a simpler time, I’d no doubt be totally fuckin yoked from all the hunting and running and tribal warfare.

Or more likely I’d be dead, eaten by slavering prehistoric hyenas I couldn’t see because of my poor eyesight, I couldn’t outrun because of my allergy-ridden lungs.

Curse you, frail constitution.

Skinny, pale, fragile… Nature herself seems to have designed me to read books, troubleshoot windows networking errors, and write annoying internet shit. I train capoeira and play sports not because I should, or because I’m good, but because I’m an obstinate and contrary bastard. Every kick I throw I’m just flippin the bird to Mother Nature. Take that, you old bitch.


As some of you Interweb nerd-types may have heard, ChristmasApe of Kissing Suzy Kolber fame was recently fired from the Washington Post. Kissing Suzy Kolber is a tasteless, low-brow, hilarious sports blog about the NFL. It’s won all kinds of awards and, although it kind of blows a goat in the off-season, is the number one place for football hilacrity on the internets. KSK is staffed by several dudes who are known only by their pseudonyms on the site, dudes who are a little too talented and knowledgeable to be random fat people in a basement somewhere.

Everyone knew these dudes were professional writers somewhere, but nobody knew where. Until last week.

Anyway, so XmasApe releases his real name, just like that Patent Troll lawyer guy, and gets fired the next day. http://yro.slashdot.org/article.pl?sid=08/02/26/1827225&from=rss Apparently, the Washington Post, fucking BASTION of Journalistic Integrity that it is, felt he was a disgrace to the paper. Now set aside for a second the fact that the Washington Post firing somebody for a lack of integrity is like the Ku Klux Klan banning someone for cultural insensitivity. This is still fucked up. This guy lost his fuckin job, his bread and butter, for being both popular and hilarious.

We all know newspapers as a medium have one foot in the grave, but I’m honestly shocked to see them so eager to hasten their demise. I mean come on, fire the guy for being hugely popular on The Inernets? Fuck that, promote him! Give him his own god damn column! That’s any easy twenty thousand overweight, internet-addicted Redskins fans that are gonna run out and buy a subscription to your crapass rag just to hear ChristmasApe rip on Heinz Ward.

Fucking tards.

Anyway, in a show of solidarity for The Ape, I’ve decided to release my own real name. I realize that this imperils my employment, my family, and likely my eternal soul, but it’s time to make a stand.

But what about all those horrible things you’ve said, Trevor? What about all those offensive comments? All those dangerous, illegal misadventures? Aren’t you afraid of retribution?

Yes. I am. But this is a matter of principle.

Therefore, I want you all to know my real name is Paul Edward Shandi. I’m a mechanical engineer in Orange County California. I’m five foot nine, I drive a BMW, and I fucking HATE poor people.

All you assholes out there that I’ve insulted or demeaned, you all can just SCREW OFF.

DO YOUR WORST, you bastards.

– Paul E. Shandi.


4 Responses to “We pretend that we’re dead”

  1. That is a hell of a thing you do, Paul. A hell of a thing.

    Now your days are numbered in that town p-dazzle. Violence is coming to your door – get out while there’s time. Run while you’re skinny white Armenian legs can carry you. Soon the hoards will be at your door, and they WILL tear it down, break all that is not limp and probably take a pound of flesh, you know, to keep with the theme.

    Maybe the Washington Post has openings…

  2. anonymous Says:

    i just laughed so hard i think i may have ruptured my spleen.

    your faithful reader,

  3. anonymous Says:

    I’m 5’10” dammit!

  4. anonymous Says:


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