So I went to the gym after work to meet with my new trainer (my old trainer having gone on to more pleasant things, like doing physical therapy with indigent psycopaths) and it went ok, except for the him trying to kill me in the guise of that building upper body strength thing. He doesn't seem as willing to point out the hot guys as Rae Ann was, but you can't have enerything.

When I went to leave, I picked up my gym bag and it was much, much heavier. "What do I have in there, weights?" I think to myself. Well, yeah ... small hand weights that I bought off Mary. Doh. And some festering gym clothes that got soaked in the Great Monsoon of 2001, which I'd forgotten about (ehwwww). Ended up buying a new pair of shorts and t-shirt at the gym just so I didn't smell like Swamp Thing. I will be doing some industrial-strength laundry tonight.

It did not, however, smell as bad as the clothes of those who participated in the World Bog Snorkeling Championship in Wales. Why snorkel in a bog? Because.... right, I can't come up with any sort of reason. Because you're nuts, I imagine.

Oh, and Mary -- I wanna be a minion! Can I be a minion? Pleeeeease? But, um, I don't want to move to New Jersey or New York. Can I be a, I dunno, satellite minion? We'll discuss the details.