Get 2 Choppin

I have a pretty good life filled with fun times, great friends and a loving family, but recently I feel as if Death has been knocking softly on my door. You may think this pessimistic view of life flies in the face of the bravada of John E. Bravo but two recent incidents having me thinking otherwise.

The first one occured two Sundays ago.  I was on my way to church to visit with the good Lord. It was a glorious day out with the birds  chirping and a fall breeze slightly on the warm side ruffling the last of the fallen leaves. I decided to stop into Speedway for a Sunday paper, an energy drink, and some speedway points.  As I was walking toward the entrance into the diagonally slashed yellow lined no parking zone a car barreled toward me. I kept walking thinking, “I’m in a safe zone, there is no way he would hit me” when at the last second he turned the wheel sharply and crashed into a plastic garbage can and knocked over about a dozen jugs of windshield wiper fluid. On leaving the store, the gentleman ackonwledge me and said, “Scared you huh? Sorry it’s been a rough morning”. That trickster Death rang the door bell but didn’t stick around along enough for me to answer.

The second incident occured in my own apartment. I had awoken early with a grumbling bumbling stomach that was in the mood for one of my famous ham green pepper and cheese omelets. As the ham and green pepper were sauting in the pan the aroma wafted up into my nostrils and I started to salivate. I turned and spit into the garbage can. After finishing my breakfast, I was on the way to the living room to watch the rest of the Today show when my flip flop met with a slippery surface and if it weren’t for my cat like reflexes I would have been ass over tea kettle. Luckily instead of cracking my skull on the kitchen counter I caught myself and sighed a breath of relief. Apparently I had missed the garbage can when I had spat and the saliva had mixed with a slight layer of dust to create the frictionless environment I had precariously found myself in. Let’s just say I felt the tickle of Death’s sickle.  

I have to say that this experience has changed my life. The roses smell rosier, the queso tastes queso-ier, the air even seems a bit more oxygenated. In fact, my new motto resonates this new found zest for life, “you can’t worry about the guy in the hood, just know that with each new day life is good”.

I’m not sure if this is a normal occurence this time of year (maybe the cause was a little bring in the spring with a fling  in the king-sized ring if you know what I mean) or if it is an anomaly but I swear to God that there is a rampant case of the pregos going around.

Everywhere I look I see pregos at an alarming rate. Screw global warming, it appears our biggest concern as a global community is the huge increase in population that is just around the corner. I hope the stork gets frequent flier miles because that diaper dandy deliverer is in for a long season.  The melting of the ice caps is nothing compared to when all those pregos’ waters break.  

The Hoover Dam wouldn’t be enough to stop the flow of fetal fluids. Yeah gross, reminds me of the old grosser than gross jokes. What’s gross? Five babies in one garbage can. What’s grosser than gross one baby in five garbage cans (don’t get mad at me for that one, it is a classic trademark grosser than gross joke reprinted here).

Of course times have changed and so have the jokes. Now with the cloning and in vitro fertilization techniques available to the public the joke goes: What is cool? eight babies in one womb. What is cooler than cool? One baby in eight wombs (think about it)!

Anyway with this rampant case of the pregos spreading across the landscape of society like a California wildfire can I really be blamed for confusing a non-prego girl with a very robust beer belly that made her look like she was about a week into her third trimester with an actual prego? Can I really be accused of being a jerk for telling our 2nd waitress of the night that I wanted a big chunk of our tip to go to our first waitress because it must’ve been hell to be that pregnant and still have to work on your feet all day? Honestly I think not!

Recently I, John E. Bravo, was expelled from the local Anytime Fitness franchise affiliate, located in Madison Heights, Michigan, without any notification on the part of the owner,  who I will call Jaybird because he is a gutless piece of chicken poo (he also owns the Berkley Anytime Fitness).

Apparently I was ratted out by two “trainers” there because I carried around a stopwatch while helping out a friend implement an exercise program. One fat black “trainer” who sits on the dumbbell rack the entire session while on his bluetooth and a skinny white fitness competitor “trainer” who specializes in 20 minute cardio blasts with clients who aren’t members were appalled because I actually taught this friend something and simultaneously put them through a workout that made them break a sweat.

The 2nd hand accusations were flying at me left and right like alternating biceps curls and were about as spot on as the lo-fat/ high-carb diets of the 80’s and 90’s that plummeted this country into a diabetic downfall.   They had about as much strength behind them as an aerobic instructors punch in a street fight.

First, it kills me that someone who is a “fitness” competitor (which relatively speaking has nothing to do with true overall fitness besides that they can maybe do the splits, and a one arm push-up while looking good in a bikini and a bad spray-on orange tan) would be your ultimate fitness resource or that the “big” guy with the baggy sweater and sweat pants who could bench the world but would die of heart attck from a couple laps on track would be a sound hire for representing your “anytime fitness” business.

2nd, if you are going to “expel” somebody from your gym at least have the cojones to stick your fat fingers into your phone and leave a message you lowly coward. I could honestly care less if I workout at your shit hole gym but have some integrity in dealing with the people that keep your fat greasy fingers plump. By the way, a bit of advice you might want to be more concerned about the treadmill that doesn’t shut off (and I’m not telling you which one jerk) and somebody accidentally stepping on it and face planting (again) and suing your pathetic businessman ass then me trying to teach somebody proper mechanics and how not to kill themselves in your gym.

It has come to my attention that we need to pump the brakes a bit here on get2choppin.com because it appears we are careening wildly out of control with a flat satire on the Dixie chopper. I, John E. Bravo, tried to mow a path along the straight and narrow that would be easy enough to follow without anyone getting lost but alas that is not the case. For that reason I have enlisted the help of chart-topper Cooter McMurray to pen a song that would help bring back the wandering worrywarts or send them on their merry way (either one will suffice).   

You googled this site late one night

When you were having trouble sleeping

It caught your eye and you started creeping

You read a post that struck a nerve

You’re mind’s going ninety heading toward that dangerous curve

Either pump the brakes or get ready to swerve.

You’re so vain; you probably think this post is about you.

You’re so vain; I bet you think this post is about you.

Don’t you? Don’t you?

Your face is flushed with blood

You think this shit isn’t funny like Paul Rudd

You’re angry with bad, bad Leroy Brown

Hell he’s a fictional character so calm your shit down

Instead remember,  “That John E. Bravo sure is a fucking clown”.

You’re so vain; you probably think this post is about you.

You’re so vain; I bet you think this post is about you.

Don’t you? Don’t you?

It’s true I’m a fucking prick

But these are just words and not stones or a stick

I know these words can sting but they can’t break bones

So throw in some Enya and slap on the headphones

And pump the brakes before you fail your driving test for hitting all the orange cones.

You’re so vain; you probably think this post is about you.

You’re so vain; I bet you think this post is about you.

Don’t you? Don’t you?

As a consumer in these trying economic times every penny counts and when I, John E. Bravo, come upon an egregious disregard for the consumer I must step in and say something. Recently on a trip to the Del Trio 24 hour Automated Car Wash, located on the west side of Rochester Road just north of Fourteen Mile in the pristine city of Clawson, Michigan, there occurred a consumer crime.

Obviously at a coin operated car wash it is necessary to exchange your hard earned money for quarters so that you can wash your car. I proceeded to the front of the building to do just that, as I approached all appeared on the up and up. I carefully read the instructions that said, “If light is on, machine is out of service”. I scanned both machines and saw one with a red colored light and one with a green colored light, neither of which appeared to be lit up. I chose the one with the green light, as that is the universal sign to proceed. Needless to say the fucking machine ate my five-dollar bill. To put it lightly, I was not a happy camper.

Now in the grand scheme of things five dollars is not a lot of money but it is the principle that counts. If you are going to own a business Mr. Frank Vella, I highly suggest you run it with the customer in mind. That is why I am deeming you the C.O.C.K. of Clawson. Yes sir, you are the Currently Operating Crap King of this wonderful little hamlet of happiness.

From this point on I will be boycotting your establishment and will do what I can in my power to stop others from visiting this black hole of bad business behavior. You may think that you can check on your investment every week or so and just reap the benefits of all the people that won’t say diddlysquat about losing a dollar or two in your money trap but sir I am not one of those people. I tend to hold a grudge, you fucking no talented ass clown of a businessman. Who knows? You may purposely sabotage one machine so that people will lose a dollar or two and then because it would be inconvenient to call (even though there was no number available) or drive to another car wash (even though there is a better one in Clawson on 14 Mile just east of Crooks) that they just try the other machine. I am on to your games, Mr. Vella. You are shadier than the trees that populate the Redwood Forest.