Hysteriosis

by RAF KATIGBAK

Do you ever get the feeling that the universe is trying to tell you something? Like certain events that happen in your life are really signs from a higher power? Maybe you think Christ or Allah has a direct line to you or whatever—heck, I met a scruffy guy in Virginia who swears that Crispin Glover was talking to him from beyond the grave. When I pointed out that Glover was very much alive, he looked at me with wild eyes and said, “Is he really?”, tapping his forehead. “Think about it.” At which point I backed away slowly.

Now, I don’t want to get all new age-y or anything but I believe sometimes things can happen that suggest a different path in life. Maybe your adeptness at dealing with a drunken canoeing accident made you realise that you want to be a paramedic, or maybe you discovered that you love gardening AND driving, so you want to drive one of those stupid trucks with the mechanical arm that waters city plants.

Well, I think the universe is trying to tell me something. In moments of quiet, when my mind is calm, I can hear it. In the rustling of trees outside my window it whispers, first softly, then with ever growing urgency: “You’re lazy and unhealthy. Get your shit together, asshole!” And so it must be.

So now I’m on health kick, all thanks to one thing that told me I must change my ways: listeria.

It was bound to happen. The universe destroyed the one thing I loved the most: processed food. The whole reason I started eating processed food was that I figured it was safer. I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about bird flu from my Michelina’s Zap ’ems Chicken Nuggets and that I would never get mad cow disease from Cheez Whiz (that shit’s basically a polymer—I’d use it to repair dings on my car if I had one). With the recent listeriosis kerfuffle, Maple Leaf is getting their sausages in a knot scrambling to figure out what to do. I too am scrambling, because instead of the slow cholesterol-soaked death I was expecting down the road, now eating my weekly fried baloney sandwich is like playing Russian roulette. With all these scientitians and nutrionalisers telling us what’s safe, what to look out for and how we know we’re about to die from eating a hot dog, the real burning question still remains: What the hell is Spam anyways?

I want to get in shape, I just don’t really know how. Mirror columnist Scott C tried to convince me to get into Speedminton, which I was all excited about until I found out it had nothing to do with crystal meth.

Then again, there are plenty of reasons not to get in shape. One thing is how retarded health nuts can be. Have you been to a gym lately? Shit’s getting mad futuristic in there. I tried to get one of those arm-and-leg machines that look like that ED 209 robot from Robocop and I felt like I needed to call a technical support hotline just to turn the thing on.

I finally gave up when I had this huge epiphany: exercise machines are lame. Okay, the rowing thing I get, only because it’s a safe way for me to pretend I’m boating without fear of drowning (I swim like a cinder block), but treadmills have got to be the stupidest things known to man. What’s the point of running and not going anywhere? I mean, doesn’t it get really boring after a while? And isn’t all that human power a waste of energy? If gyms were really smart, they’d have the machines power the flatscreen TVs. That way they’d save on electricity and soccer moms would get twice the work out because they’d be motivated to really work to find out what shenanigans Sherri gets up to in the kitchen on The View.

What ever happened to Virtual Reality? I think exercise machines should be more realistic, and VR would be an awesome way to do it. Take the stationary bike for example. It’d be great for your heart rate if you were riding along and have to suddenly dodge a CGI car door or jump over a virtual pothole. It could even be super-realistic and you could bike around your city and see the sites. And so realistic that you could get off to visit say, the Olympic Stadium, and then you’d come back to find your stationary bike stolen.

Or maybe I could just get off my fat ass and get on a real bike, or something.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca