"TITS MAGEE!"

yep.

Pretty much all I had.

You don't like it?

Kiss my ass.

Three Days of the Porpoise

Remember that movie from the 70's starring Robert Redford as a CIA researcher Joseph Turner- Three Days of the Condor? Turner, whose code name is Condor, comes close to wreaking more havoc on the C.I.A. in three days than any number of House and Senate investigating committees have done in years by unwittingly uncovering a plot to control middle east oil that in turn, causes a war within the CIA. It rages with the requisite plot twists and intrigue for three days, hence, the title.

If you remember that you're OLD.

If you're old, then 3 days straight of ANYTHING is exhausting. Well, last week I experienced what I call Three Days of the Porpoise and it was - in fact - exhausting.

Pretty much I blew off - I mean...had higher priority commitments than...my workout. Thanks to the Motivating Maggot that is Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, I decided to get my three days in the pool consecutively, as opposed to the Monday, Wednesday, Friday routine prescribed by my Coach.

You know what? It wasn't a good idea.

You know what else? I somehow managed to be repeating that bad idea this week.

This is SUCH a bad idea actually, that the resulting delirium has me wondering if I'm not transcribing this brilliant post from the bottom of the pool right now. You know, due to some "rapture of the deep" state induced by the exhaustion....

By the way...you know how pools - particularly indoor pools - smell suffocatingly like chlorine? That's just to mask the fact that at the bottom? It smells suffocatingly like feet.

...and ass.


Assuming I float to the surface, am subsequently dragged out of the pool with giant shepard's crook and revived....I'll be hitting the Al Quaida produced Total Gym tonight.

Then, I'll probably hit the booze.

Motivation

Good work FP.  I see that your toying with the idea of committing yourself.  At this rate, in three years we'll be signing you up to be the poster child..err porpoise of the pushme-pullme bar.  To that end I thought I'd offer you some words of inspiration from one of the most infamous motivational speaker of the last 20 years.  Yup that's right...the one and only Gunnery Sergeant Hartman.  If these words of inspiration can't push you over the edge then nothing will.

for your general motivation....

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: If you ladies leave my island, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. You will be a minister of death praying for war. But until that day you are pukes. You are the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human, fucking beings. You are nothing but unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian shit. Because I am hard you will not like me. But the more you hate me the more you will learn. I am hard but I am fair. There is no racial bigotry here. I do not look down on niggers, kikes, wops or greasers. Here you are all equally worthless. And my orders are to weed out all non-hackers who do not pack the gear to serve in my beloved Corps. Do you maggots understand that?

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Are you quitting on me? Well, are you? Then quit, you slimy fucking walrus-looking piece of shit! Get the fuck off of my obstacle! Get the fuck down off of my obstacle! NOW! MOVE IT! Or I'm going to rip your balls off, so you cannot contaminate the rest of the world! I will motivate you, Private Pyle, IF IT SHORT-DICKS EVERY CANNIBAL ON THE CONGO!

for when you are using the pushme-pullme....

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Get your fat ass up there! I'll bet if there was some pussy up there you would get up there, wouldn't you? 

Private Pyle: Sir, yes sir! 

for when you are pushing yourself through that grueling swimming crap...

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: I don't know but I been told... 

Marines: I don't know but I been told... 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Eskimo pussy is mighty cold. 

Marines: Eskimo pussy is mighty cold. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: MMM, good... 

Marines: MMM, good... 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Tastes good... 

Marines: Tastes Good... 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Feels Good. 

Marines: Feels good. 

the rest of this was just too funny not to include...

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Holy dog shit. Texas? Only steers and queers come from Texas, Private Cowboy. And you don't look much like a steer to me so that kinda narrows it down. Do you suck dicks? 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Did your parents have any children that lived? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, yes, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: I'll bet they regret that. You're so ugly you could be a modern art masterpiece. 

unnery Sergeant Hartman: Does your parents have any children that lived? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, Yes, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Well how about they regret that? You are so ugly you can be a modern art master piece! What's your name fat-body? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, Leonard Lawrence, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Lawrence? Lawrence what of Arabia? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, No, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: That name sounds like royalty are you royalty? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, No, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Do you suck dicks? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, No, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Bullshit. I bet you could suck a golfball through a garden hose. 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, No, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: I don't like the name Lawrence, only faggots and sailors are called Lawrence. From now on you're Gomer Pyle. 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, Yes, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Get your fat ass up there! I'll bet if there was some pussy up there you would get up there, wouldn't you? 

Private Pyle: Sir, yes sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Who said that? Who the fuck said that? Who's the slimy little communist shit, twinkle-toed cocksucker down here who just signed his own death warrant? Nobody, huh? The fairy fucking godmother said it. Out-fucking-standing! I will PT you all until you fucking die! I'll PT you until your assholes are sucking buttermilk! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Reveille! Reveille! Reveille! Drop your Cocks and grab your socks! Today is Sunday! Devine Worship is at 0800. Get your bunks made and get your uniforms on! Police call will commence in two minutes! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: As soon as your bunks are done, I want you two turds to clean the head. 

Joker and Cowboy: Sir, yes, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: I want that head so sanitary and squared-away that the Virgin Mary herself would be proud to go in and take a dump.

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Do you think I'm cute, Private Pyle? Do you think I'm funny? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, no, sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Then wipe that disgusting grin off your face. 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, yes, sir. 

[tries to stop smiling] 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Well, any fucking time, sweetheart! 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, I'm trying, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Private Pyle I'm gonna give you three seconds; exactly three-fucking-seconds to wipe that stupid looking grin off your face or I will gouge out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you! ONE! TWO! THREE! 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, I can't help it, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Bullshit! Get on your knees scumbag! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: [Pyle drops down to his knees] 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Now choke yourself. 

Private Gomer Pyle: [Pyle wraps his own hands around his throat] 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Goddamn it, with MY hand, numb-nuts! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: [Pyle reaches for Hartman's hand] 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Don't pull my fucking hand over there! I said choke yourself; now lean forward and choke yourself! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: [choking Pyle] Are you through grinning? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, yes, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Bullshit, I can't hear you! 

Private Gomer Pyle: [louder] Sir, yes, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Bullshit, I STILL can't hear you! Sound off like you've got a pair! 

Private Gomer Pyle: SIR, YES, SIR! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: That's enough; get on your feet. Private Pyle you had best square your ass away and start shitting me Tiffany cufflinks or I will definitely fuck you up! 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, yes, sir. 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Holy Jesus! What is that? What the fuck is that? WHAT IS THAT, PRIVATE PYLE? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, a jelly doughnut, sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: A jelly doughnut? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, yes, sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: How did it get here? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, I took it from the mess hall, sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Is chow allowed in the barracks, Private Pyle? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, no, sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Are you allowed to eat jelly doughnuts, Private Pyle? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, no, sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: And why not, Private Pyle? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, because I'm too heavy, sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Because you are a disgusting fat body, Private Pyle! 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, yes, sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Then why did you try to sneak a jelly doughnut in your foot locker, Private Pyle? 

Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, because I was hungry, sir! 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Because you were hungry... 

[turns and addresses rest of platoon] 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Private Pyle has dishonored himself and dishonored the platoon. I have tried to help him. But I have failed. I have failed because YOU have not helped me. YOU people, have not given Private Pyle the proper motivation! So, from now on, whenever Private Pyle fucks up, I will not punish him! I will punish all of YOU! And the way I see it ladies, you owe me for ONE JELLY DOUGHNUT! NOW, GET DOWN ON YOUR FACES! 

[rest of recruits get in front-leaning-rest position, Hartman turns to Pyle] 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Open your mouth! 

[shoves jelly doughnut into PYLE's mouth] 

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: They're payin' for it; YOU eat it! Ready! Exercise!

 

Broken Mile Friday

You've heard the term "Broken Arrow"? What the military calls the situation of having lost - or had stolen - a nuclear weapon? It is probably the closest thing to panic that the military would acknowledge. You've got a device capable of killing millions - that COST you millions - and you've misplaced it.

"Jesus H. CHRIST Jenkins! What the FUCK did you do with that bomb!" "I...I...I....I don't know Sir. It was right here on the dresser a minute ago. I SWEAR!"

Panic. Right?

Well, that's the same feeling I have in the pit of my stomach when "Broken Mile Friday" rolls around. Which it does. Every Friday (whoda guessed) just like clockwork...er...calendar-work? Whatever.

This is basically where you swim a nice 800 yard warm-up...and by "warm" I mean "what's that warm feeling in my swim suit?" Get it? - Its agony...followed by another 800 IM at a race pace. So...you know...8 freakin laps of Fly followed by a numb, mindless, drifting thru another 24 laps of other strokes. They may not be able to hear you scream in space but, in the pool? They can't see you drooling like a retard either.

They CAN however see you swimming thru your own vomit....just sayin'.

So now that we're good and warmed up, the fun begins. Swimming 11 150s at your race pace. Just a hint to you non-swimmers and Olympics aficionados...there IS NO "11 150s" event. This is just sadistic torture foisted upon me by an overly jovial coach.

After that we get to kick. This is where the vomiting comes in. "Come on" your saying. "Kicking? You don't have to use your arms and you get a nice bouyant board to rest your tired arms on. How hard can it be?"

Get in my lane next Friday and ask me that to my face as I vomit in your stupid face. That's how hard...OK?

See it isn't that you get to rest your arms...its that you DON'T get to USE them. How many armless Olympian swimmers do you know?

No really. I'll wait while you ruminate...

I have to skim the pool of all that puke anyway.

Kicking is SLOW and hard. And since you're already heaving for breath from the previous exertions, this just makes things worse. Then, stretching out your arms in front of you really strains your gut - hence all the vomiting.

After that there's sprinting. And drills. And lots of other fun Monastic Masochisms dreamt up during the Spanish Inquisition - minus the sexual gratification.

So how many yards today? I have no freaking idea and I don't care. Right now I'm busy looking for a Vomitorium on Google Maps....

Grueling

4,500 yards chasing some 17 year old punk. Grueling. That's all I gotta say.

That and I'm typing this with my nose. As I do 8...9....10....10 push ups.

Tomorrow is "Broken-Mile-Friday". It's a joy.

My stomach just clenched as I wrote that.....

"Oak wood has a density of about 0.75 g/cm³, great strength and hardness......"

Yeah yeah...its also the National Tree of that great bastion of strength....FRANCE. It IS HARD to stomach the STRENGTH of a Frenchman's body odor so I guess it makes sense somehow.

Additionally, Oak Trees are notorious leaf shedders. Around here we have the kind that don't finish dropping their leaves until Spring, when the new leaves come out. Their leaves and - horribly plentiful acorns - are also poisonous AND addictive to horses, causing intense diarrhea.

So what you have is the National Tree of France hanging around my yard, dropping leaves FOREVER, attracting Gypsy Moths, sickening equines and causing my house to be painted by Mr Ed's explosive excrement.

Oak Tree's are a pain in the ass. Especially for the horses.

'nough said

On the other hand the Porpoise (I reject your Bradford Pear homology and reassert the supremacy of my own) is Latin for "Pig Fish"...so...uh...take THAT!

Porpoises are predators (and if you've every seen me attack a sandwich you would acknowledge that I too, am a predator. Of course, I cannot claim to attack a sandwich with the same gusto as Oak Tree attacks a liquor cabinet...)

Contemplating my fine porpoise like physique while writing this, I once again attempted a sit up with my Iron Gym. Approaching the endeavor with Zen-like concentration, I hooked my feet like so...adjusted the postion of my prodigious buttucks thusly....heaved my self forward and up then....wow. Look at how that thing twirls thru the air....OHSHIT! SON...of.... a... BITCH!!

Redemption? Ressurection? Whatever...it all hurts...

So I decided that I needed to do more than swim to get in shape and I bought this handy dandy item. Call me crazy but, I'm beginning to become suspicious that this guy may have looked this way BEFORE he started using it.

In any case, the box sat around the kitchen for few days then I opened it. Then it sat around the living room a few days until I hung it in a doorway. A few days later a did a pull up. Yes one. It hurt. Then I did a few push ups. They hurt too but I could do more of those. Then I tried the sit ups and whacked my head on the wall behind me. That hurt most.

But gradually I started using this thing daily - mostly once daily. I still don't look like the guy in the picture and it still hurts but now I can manage 5 pull ups. I've studiously avoided the sit-ups because despite the instructions, I can't get the thing to stay put when I roll back. In fact, I think this device may be developed by Al-Quaida.

Every time I've tried to use it for sit ups it ends up flipping into the air - executing a perfect somersault mesmerizingly over my head and just when my sense of self-preservation overcomes the hypnotic twirling....it falls on my face. Al-Quaida KNOWS we're a nation of fat bastards. They also know that our appetite for cheeseburgers topped with pancakes & bacon is equaled only by our appetite for fitness devices. Suicide bombers? Too messy - and in limited supply. Dirty Bombs? Too difficult -plus that Jack Bauer character is always sneaking around making everyone twitchy. Fitness devices eagerly bought by the millions that unexpectedly flip into the air and kill their owners? GENIUS.

Despite Al-Quiada and their twirling pull-up bar of death, I am determined to persevere. To that end I have relaunched my Olympic swimming bid. Today I swam 4,000 yards. Roughly 2.25 miles. I say "roughly" because it WAS rough.

It was about a mile in that I began to think about redemption...as in I have redeemed myself by getting back to this. About 10 yards later that became "Resurrection" because I began to feel as if I WAS being resurrected.

I want you to contemplate that for second. Have you ever thought about what that would actually be like? I mean your DEAD. You've got rigor mortise. Your muscles have atrophied. You blood stopped moving and then some hairy Jew who smells like a donkey comes along and tells you to get up...COMPELS you to get up in fact. I gotta believe that involves one hell of a lot of pain. What, with the screaming dead muscles forced to move, the clotted, moisture less blood slicing thru brittle veins....I'll bet the first thing Lazarus REALLY did once Jesus resurrected him was kick him right in the BALLS.

Assuming he was flexible enough to pull it off.

My point? I feel resurrected.

Exercise sucks. And I DON'T LIKE IT. Not one damned bit.