DMFRH – What’s That Spell?
CAUTION: This post contains significant amounts of cursing, without those sorry little @$#%! marks to hide what I really want to say. If this is an issue, come back on Friday: I should be in a decidedly better mood. You’ve been warned.
I’m going to add a new award series to my blog: DMFRH. Dis MuthaFucker Right Here.
We all know these people—these jackasses who conspire to make life a bit more difficult just because they fucking can. The ones who don’t actually have shit to say but just speak simply because they know the language. A stupid boss. A simple child. An annoying client. The PTA President. That mean-ass usher in church.
Or this guy:
Anybody can be DMFRH. You have. I certainly have. In most cases, it’s a temporary condition broken by plenty of rest and Advil, a stiff drink or a swift kick in the ass. In others, it’s more permanent. Chris Humphries. Ari Gold. George W. Bush. Permanent asses.
So I know what you’re thinking: Chris, who might you be nominating for your first DMFRH?
First, The Boy. This cat has been showing a flagrant disregard for his schoolwork. FLAGRANT. Every day somebody says, “Hey, you got any homework?” Simple question, right? Ought to have a simple answer. This joker says no. Every day. “Nope, no homework.” But he has Xbox time, right? Homeboy is making substantial inroads in Modern Warfare but can’t multiply. Well, school calls us—we gotta have a meeting with all his teachers and the counselor. It’s like an academic intervention. They provide a litany of missing assignments and then a variety of scenarios when DMFRH can’t figure out how to look at the board and figure out what’s going on. We wanna kill him because he’s showing his ass, the school is involved, but the boy resolves to do something different. He says, “I’m gonna go home, skip the snack, open my planner and get to work!” Great! What does DMFRH do? Come home, eats TWICE, shits and goes THE FUCK to sleep. Seriously?
That’s one. I have more.
So you know I decided I wanted to lose a few pounds (approximately 60). To that end, two things showed up at my house: Insanity and P90X. I told you I have this Superman complex, right? I think I can do anything, right? I said to myself “How hard can it be?” I put that damn Insanity disc to do the Fit Test. I almost fainted during the warm up. THE WARM UP! The whole test was 30 minutes—it took me 45 and my body hurt for two days. I did the Fit Test. I finished it. I am not fit.
So then I switched to P90X. Tony Horton: DMFRH is FUCKING NUTS! Oh, it’ll make you fit and strong. No question about it. Provided you survive it. I did something called Plyometrics yesterday. What that means is I tried to kill myself. On purpose. That man said “Wear a heart monitor so you can make sure you’re in the Zone.” The Zone? Goddammit, you’ve had me leaping like a fucking gazelle for the last 40 minutes and DMFRH asked me am I in the Zone? Fuck your Zone, Tony. My heart monitor said STOP.
So the second DMFRH award is split between two public figures: Shaun “HipHopAbs Dancing Ass” T and Tony “Fuck Him” Horton.
Who’s the DMFRH is your life right now? Drop me a comment and I’ll promote the winner next week!
I’m going to take a bath in IcyHot…