Burying Bad News

Any election campaign is full of wonderful intentions. Promises are made, targets are set and goals are described as 'challenging, yet achievable'. Every breath a politician draws back on is documented in some form of media during this time, hence they are easily recalled if the broken promise isn't properly buried under big news. I'm starting to find out that I shouldn't be making promises that I can't keep. Such as the foolish 'I'll buy the beers at the rugby' offer or any other commitment that I've made on this blog. It’s much harder to for me to deny and/or bury my broken promises such as Jo Moore's infamous 9/11 email, or any president sneaking in pardon's for friends or laws beneficial to their doners in the minutes before vacating office.

WOW THAT DRUG ADDLED PIECE OF MAN MEAT BEN COUSINS IS BACK PLAYING AFL AGAIN i haven't been to a trim trail in 6 weeks AND HOW ABOUT THAT MADOFF FELLA WITH HIS EEEEEEEVIL PYRAMID STYLE SCHEME neither have I been to the gym WHA???? STANFORD MAY PULL OUT OF HIS CRICKET FUNDING I was out all night on Friday night after only promising to have '2 or 3' drinks at my Christmas party DID YOU JUST SAY THAT KATIE, 20, FROM BIRMINGHAM TOOK TIME OUT FROM POSING TOPLESS TO GIVE HER OPINION ON THE BRITISH MILITARY ON PAGE 3? WOW, SHE REALLY IS MORE THAN JUST AN EASILY CO-ERCED SLAPPER WHO MISTAKENLY THOUGHT SHE'D GAIN RESPECT FROM GUYS BY GETTING HER BAPS OUT IN A NATIONAL RAG.

It really has been a couple of weeks of unspectacular action from my end. Although a daily commitment to working on the 'core area', as boring fitness instructors refer to my gut as, has already paid dividends. It did wind up in a humorous situation last Thursday, however. I was nearing the end of the session in my loungeroom and had built up quite a sweat, hence had taken off my shirt. The last few reps of this routine generally see's me struggling a bit, hence I was panting loudly. It was at the final point that I let out a loud 'argghhhhhhh' and collapsed back on to the floor. AT THIS VERY MOMENT, my flatmate opened the door to find me post-grunt, shirtless, panting and sweaty all over. The horrified expression on her face meant only one thing. She thought she had caught the tail end of me furiously 'banishing a white russian from my kremlin'. Needless to say it took us both a few seconds to regain our composure before a barely-believable explanation was offered.

Time to run. I have cricket to watch. Death to all Jarpies.