Probably won't post tonight, as I'll be watching the Bears win the Superbowl, so I'll just jot some bullshit down now, while the spawn run around upstairs, engaging in some maximum lid-flippage.
Swam yesterday, and it was a fucking nightmare. Anarchy reigned supreme, as a cast of about six hirsute, heavily tattooed chucklefucks had taken over half of the pool. I walk out there and there they were, kinda lounging in lanes one through three, yappin', splashing and, occasionally, actually swimming. I couldn't quite figure out the demographic from whence this clan came. I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess merchant marines. I don't really know what merchant marines are, but I'm pretty sure they look and act like the pool-hoarders.
So I stood there for a good ten minutes deciding where I should attempt to swim. The other two lanes had 2-3 swimmers in each, so they were pretty much off limits. So I got into lane three, which had two of the yahoos in it, lounging at the far end of the pool. One of them started swimming toward my side of the pool, and when he touched the wall, I asked, "Uh, do you mind sharing the lane?" Without looking up, he growled, "Whatever, dude, there's enough pool for everybody." Pretty hostile for a "go ahead," but I went ahead because a) I need me my swimmin', and 2) I was getting so fucking cold standing on the side, my left nipple had already cracked off and plipped into the drink.
So, I spent the next 1/2 hour dodging these romping ruffians, as I attempted to get in my meager workout. I narrowly missed getting kicked/punched in the head multiple times by errant frog-kicks and their near-constant homoerotic water horseplay. I guess when you're lonely out at sea, selling things or doing whatever the "merchant" part requires you to do, you develop a close camaraderie with your boatmates that spills over into the real world. And what better place to engage in watery grabass than at the local YMCA.
They finally tired of their maritime merrymaking, and headed off to the showers while I was still mid-workout. Luckily, by the time I went in to rinse off, any evidence of the rollicking that went on under those spraying nozzles had already been washed down the drain.
They had vanished just as mysteriously as they had appeared. Perhaps their ship was pulling up anchor, setting off for some other port in the storm. For they were Merchant Marines: the military salesmen of the sea.
And the motto of the Merchant Marines? I'm pretty sure it's Semper Clausus -- always be closing.