short-Timer

Dude, give up on the feeble trolling attempts. Bankrupt and pathetic.

I love it, at least ten of the responses so far are trolling, and not a single one on topic. Most of this lot probably never ever check their heart rate, know anything about their own heart rhythms, let alone understand the dire importance of cardiovascular fitness as you age. I recently had an exercise stress test using a stair climber machine, and it was done with a cardiologist where my heart was monitored with diodes to first slowly get my heart rate up and eventually record heart function at 140 BPM under physical stress for a full minute. The doctor confirmed that my heart is in excellent shape based on no irregularities in heart function during the test. While some of you seem to think a peak heart rate of 170 during exercise sounds like a scary thing, it’s actually a sign of strong cardiovascular fitness. If you can get your heart rate up there, under physical stress, and not suffer any issues of extreme fatigue, dizziness, etc, then that's a great sign. More people should wear heart rate monitors and try and do more to learn about how and to keep their heart in good health.

Wow, I had no idea we had Dr. Nose-Fuk-All in the house. Tell me, doc, do you diagnose all your patients based on forum posts, or is this just a special perk for AN members?

You're gonna have to pull it yourself, unless you can hire one down at Nana to pull it for you, but that might even be a challenge for you.

Hopefully she's at least kind enough to wake you up when it's time to pop.

I've been struggling to cum for 30 years! Too much of a good thing. 😊 Average is 130-135 during most of the session.

That's also just a peak heart rate that got recorded sometime during the session. The average heart rate recorded throughout the session is a lot lower. It's impossible to maintain that level for long. I probably only last for 5-7 seconds at that high heart rate until I feel I can't get enough oxygen and I either nut or automatically pause or slow down at that point.

It normally happens when I'm giving your wife a bit of back-door training. She loves it. In fact, she shouts "169" the whole time. Who would've known.

Many out-shape-men in Pattaya have checked out permanently over the years pulling those numbers. Many of them British. Too much alcohol and boom-boom. If you are out of shape, and with weak heart health, it can be dangerous. If you are in normal heart health, it's like HIIT training and very good cardiovascular conditioning.

43 Bpm when sleeping, 54 Bpm resting heart rate. Averages 120 Bpm during compound exercises like push-ups or squats.

Pro-tip for the noob: you've got the Apple Watch on your wrist anyway, you hold it up to your mouth and mutter "Siri start workout". After that, it records your heart rate continuously and in real time until you end the work out. When you're done, open the Health app on your iPhone and look at the heart rate range during your last workout. Done.

I often hit a heart rate of 169 Bpm, according to my Apple Watch, while taking care of business. That's higher than the maximum heart rate for my age based on the 220-your age formula. What's your top speed? Ever measured it?

Dear GammaGargantuan, Ah, proctology. The final frontier. Of all the medical specialties, this one truly begs the question: why. Why would any young doctor wake up one day and say, “You know what? I want to dedicate my life to spelunking the depths of the human posterior.” There must be something irresistible about it, something deeply compelling. Something… magnetic, even. And yet, I find myself wondering, Gamma, why does this topic weigh so heavily on your mind. The way you speak of it, with such passion, such intensity, one might almost suspect a personal investment in the field. A lingering fascination, perhaps. A yearning, even. No judgment, of course. We all have our interests. Some people collect stamps. Others, well… But I digress. You raise an interesting point about the lack of female proctologists. Strength, you say. Surely not. It does not take brute force to wield the mighty proctoscope, just a steady hand, a keen eye, and, presumably, an unshakable commitment to one’s craft. So what is it, then. Is it the stigma. The sheer, unrelenting intimacy of the profession. Or is it that men like yourself, deep down, prefer the idea of another man getting elbow deep in their uphill gardening affairs. Something reassuring about it, perhaps. A certain familiarity to you? I do find it curious that your stance on proctologists appears to hinge entirely on gender. A male proctologist is out of the question. A female one. Well, perhaps, if it is life or death. Though, I must say, Gamma, you do seem to have a remarkable amount of energy on the subject for someone so supposedly averse to the experience. One might almost think you long for the touch of a skilled male professional, just, you know, the right one. And what of the procedure itself. You speak of it with such reverence, such conflicted emotion. Trauma, you say. Or was it… something else. A formative experience, perhaps. A moment that lingers in the subconscious, surfacing in unexpected ways while you're surfing on Pornhub. I do wonder. And I wonder if, deep down, some part of you is waiting, hoping, yearning for a chance to rewrite that chapter of your life. With a softer touch. A more delicate approach. A strong male presence guiding you through the darkness, whispering words of encouragement as you steel yourself for the inevitable. I can see it now. And I think, Gamma, that if you ever do find yourself back in that chair, staring at the sterile white ceiling, gripping the edge of the table with equal parts dread and anticipation, you will be ready this time. You will know what to expect. And perhaps, just perhaps, you will embrace the moment for what it is. A necessary intrusion. A return to the past. A chance to let go. Best regards, A Most Concerned Observer

Which clinic will you be going to get that Penis Reversal procedure done?

This whole silly topic is just another desperate and pretentious bob smith windup. The chances of bob-the-knob ever having the means or fortitude to ever get a PR are as likely as bob giving up bonking ladyboys in Tuk-Tuks or GG writing a post that's ever worth reading. You get the point.

Same as the cost of 100 years of retirement visas.

1,900 Baht (about 45 quid) for a one-year visa to live in Thailand without ever having to leave the country, cheap and cheerful. The process is simple: a quick trip to the bank in the morning once a year to get some printed paperwork, followed by an hour at immigration in the afternoon. No waiting around either, thanks to an online queue booking system. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, mate.

Bung-Buggered-Bob, why not cut down on your frequent visits to Soi 6 where you get your back 9 plowed by the geezers in frocks on a daily basis? Then maybe your aris won't be in so much pain after just a short, bog standard ride on an old banger.

Today I was supposed to meet up with GG at a gay bar in Chiang Mai for a few drinks and maybe some Brokeback. He never showed up. I was there in bells. He didn't even give a courtesy call to say he wasn't coming. I was heart broken. Almost killed myself.

They just don’t know what they’re missing, right Glamma? Sheet, I’ve been using it even since before I was born. I can never stop. Best Regards, Mennen Sniffing Addict.

People often talk about the paradise of living in a rural Thai village amongst nature, a quiet easy life, blah, blah, blah. But in reality they burn all their garbage all year round, including anything toxic, like plastic, petrochemicals, and anything else that grows out of the ground. Oh, the bliss!

I heard the Cheeto Mussolini brand is very cheesy, but yet stinky as well.

Dearest GammaGlamm, Ah, Heaven, thy name is RPN. Thank you for confirming that the Android app exists. I must admit, I’ve been wandering in the wilderness of arithmetic for far too long, unaware that salvation was just a download away. Imagine my delight at discovering that there’s still a way to embrace the brilliance of RPN, even in this cold, lifeless digital age where buttons are just… illusions on a screen. Still, I’ll admit, I’ve been hesitant to embrace a digital version of something so divine. You see, the tactile sensation of an HP calculator wasn’t just a tool, it was a love affair. Each click of those trapezoidal keys felt like a tiny promise that the universe could make sense. But if this app can bring me even a fraction of that joy, then perhaps it’s worth a leap of faith. I mean, isn’t that what progress is? A leap, sometimes blind, but hopefully rewarding. Pure deliciousness, indeed. You captured it perfectly. Those keys were like fine chocolates, melting into the soul of your fingertips as you punched in calculations that felt as smooth as silk. And at less than USD 4.00? That’s almost an insult to what this app might be capable of. A coffee these days barely gets you a smile, but for four dollars, this app could resurrect my long-lost love for mathematical precision. It almost seems too good to be true. Still, I can’t help but mourn the loss of that tactile magic. There’s something about the physical world that apps can never replicate. The weight of the calculator in your hand, the slightly worn edges of the keys from years of loyal service, and the smug satisfaction of knowing your HP could outperform anything else in its time. It wasn’t just functionality. It was art. It was a ritual. It was life. As for Apple… I feel your disdain. Oh, how I do. The very thought of Apple’s restrictive ecosystem makes me shudder. Control freaks, indeed, dictating how we live, work, and calculate, as if we’re mere puppets in their white minimalist world. Nothing about them could ever replicate the freedom and elegance of true RPN, where logic reigns supreme, untethered by the constraints of design trends and shiny marketing. I’m curious, though… What’s this about cooking Chinese noodles? That alone might sell me on this app. Is it a recipe guide, a timer, or does it simply whisper sweet encouragements as I stir the pot? Is there anything this app can’t do? I feel as though I’ve been missing out on a treasure trove of possibilities, all because I was stuck in my ways, loyal to the past but blind to the future. Perhaps it’s not the same as the HP-65 that went to the Moon and back, but if it can take me to the kitchen and make dinner, I’d say that’s still pretty impressive. NASA might not call, but my stomach will thank me. And while it may not hold the weight of space exploration in its virtual circuits, this app sounds like it carries the spirit of invention and practicality that defined an era. I’ll give this app a shot, Gamma. I trust your judgment more than I trust my own sometimes. If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me. You’ve never steer anyone wrong, and I know you wouldn’t now. If it can truly bring me back to the glory days of RPN, then I’ll gladly embrace it with open arms and a hopeful heart. And I promise, if you were disappear from AN over this then I would fully understand why. The very idea feels like sacrilege now. I can see clearly that RPN is the one true way, the path forward, and the only method worthy of our loyalty. Forever loyal to RPN, A Reformed Calculator Enthusiast

Dear GustyGamma, Do you remember the first time you read Gone with the Wind? Surely, it was an epic moment. The drama. The romance. The burning of Tara. Such intensity! But, as I was rereading it this week for the 11th time, a curious thought occurred to me. A thought about the title. Gone with the Wind. It’s poetic, isn’t it? But could it mean something else entirely? Something less… noble? I mean, think about it. Have you ever been in a room where someone—how shall I say—let things go with the wind? And then suddenly, the smell, the evidence, everything… was just gone. Gone with the wind. Could this be a hidden theme in the book? Stay with me here. Scarlett was always in a huff. Always dramatic. Always leaving people in her wake. Perhaps she was clearing the air, so to speak. And Rhett? Well, we all know Rhett didn’t give a damn. Maybe that’s why he walked away so effortlessly in the end. Could it be that the story’s grandeur is actually a metaphor? A tale of life’s fleeting moments, both beautiful and… odoriferous? When you think about it, isn’t the essence of life just one long attempt to make things go… with the wind? Gone with the Wind. It’s brilliant, really. I think I love this book even more now. Best regards, Gassy

Dear GammaGlee, Ah, the color combinations! Absolutely breathtaking. The way the body, face, buttons, and numbers came together… it wasn’t just design. It was genius. Whoever chose them understood the perfect balance of form and function. It wasn’t just a calculator. It was a statement. A work of art, as you so rightly said. But then, she came along. And, oh, the destruction she wrought! Catastrophic! Everything elegant, everything timeless, gone in the blink of a female's eye. Replaced by mediocrity. And for what? Progress? No. It was sacrilege. We may never see the likes of those calculators again. Such a loss. I’m still mourning. Sincerely tearful, RPN Romantic