yep.
Pretty much all I had.
You don't like it?
Kiss my ass.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
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!
Friday, February 6, 2009
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....
"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....
Thursday, February 5, 2009
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.....
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.....
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
"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!!
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.
Friday, January 30, 2009
btw
btw...if your thinking about questioning my activities this week, here's a recap:
Monday - 30 elliptacle, 30 weights
Tuesday - 30 elliptacle, 30 weights
Wednesday - 45 minute run through San Fran including the most ridiculous finishing uphill you could imagine...yeah dig the pic
Thursday - red-eye home, dead zone
Friday - zip
Saturday - planning to redeem for Thursday and Friday
'nough said
Oak wood has a density of about 0.75 g/cm³, great strength and hardness......
source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oak
'nough said
on the other hand the only significant thing about the Bradford Pear (which bears resemblance to the current figure of the 'porpoise').....
....Its shape varies from ovate to elliptical.
source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bradford_pear
see what I mean?
Give me some updates!! I need stats!
source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oak
'nough said
on the other hand the only significant thing about the Bradford Pear (which bears resemblance to the current figure of the 'porpoise').....
....Its shape varies from ovate to elliptical.
source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bradford_pear
see what I mean?
Give me some updates!! I need stats!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
If a Tree Falls in the Subdivision
I knew creating this blog was going to be the start of a lot of trouble but trouble is my middle name - I'm a glutton for it. Actually, maybe "Glutton" is my middle name...better fish the the birth certificate out of the safe-deposit box and check. And by "safe-deposit box" I mean plastic tub from Wal-Mart housed in an antique oak cabinet. A stellar place to keep those documents you don't want destroyed in a fire.
No really.
Think about it. That cabinet is made out of wood so bone dry it will burst into flame at the mere mention of fire and THAT will, in turn, instantly cause the plastic tub to melt, forming a protective cocoon around the important documents.
You know, like that mosquito encased in amber in Jurassic Park...that held the DNA of the dinosaurs? That they reconstituted?
Just like that.
Sure Barney got loose, freaked out, ate a buncha people, three movies later got himself on a ship, sailed to California and ate a bunch MORE people...but that isn't the point is it?
No. The point is that that dinosaur survived hundreds of millions of years of evolution, volcanic destruction, ice-ages, earthquakes, life extinguishing meteors and lived to eat again. Why? Because he was inside a mosquito encased in a protective cocoon of amber. And amber is just some old-as-shit resin that had the moisture cooked out of it. That Wal-mart tub is made out of plastic resin and the flash fire of the antique cabinet will cook the moisture out IT too....and form a the same protective cocoon.
Its frickin' genius. And I don't have to remember a combination.
But I digress.
This blog is trouble, I knew it would be and the immediate proof is that "The Gauntlet" post. I mean, The Fit Porpoise is about getting my fine, porpoise-like physique into some sort of other - less aquatic looking - shape and is the direct result of the aforementioned (though incompletely told as of this writing) "Challenge" - a very specific challenge, issued by the similarly aforementioned nice-smelling "Wives". And what do I get for my philanthropic and magnanimous efforts to enlighten you - the gentle reader - with my story?
ANOTHER FUCKING CHALLENGE!
"Do some push-up!" WAH!
"Do some sit-ups!" WAH!
"Do some pull-ups!" WAH!
Hey Oak-Tree...FUCK YOU!
Oak-Tree's issuing instructions and demanding I blog about it. That's rich. This is the fucker who got me into running a couple of years ago, got me to sign up for a half-marathon, got me running in 17degree weather at 5am in the morning because "he was too busy" to run any other time....then pulls up lame after its too late to back out.
Ever see a tree fall on a stop-sign? Pretty much what happened. And I'm left to run thru his fancy subdivision in the dark, avoiding leash less dogs with names like "Knightsbridge Squire Muldoon" and horse-flies the size of Volkswagen-beetles all because this Sequoia sized, ex high-school soccer star's calf muscle couldn't take the pounding it was getting from his
Big
Fat
Ass.
I managed 3 pull ups, 10 push ups and a knot on my head because my "pushmepullme" is setup in a closet doorway and I hit my head on the wall when I rolled back trying the sit-ups. So there. Fuck you.
BTW - that Stop Sign? Still bent from when Oak-Tree here fell on it.
No really.
Think about it. That cabinet is made out of wood so bone dry it will burst into flame at the mere mention of fire and THAT will, in turn, instantly cause the plastic tub to melt, forming a protective cocoon around the important documents.
You know, like that mosquito encased in amber in Jurassic Park...that held the DNA of the dinosaurs? That they reconstituted?
Just like that.
Sure Barney got loose, freaked out, ate a buncha people, three movies later got himself on a ship, sailed to California and ate a bunch MORE people...but that isn't the point is it?
No. The point is that that dinosaur survived hundreds of millions of years of evolution, volcanic destruction, ice-ages, earthquakes, life extinguishing meteors and lived to eat again. Why? Because he was inside a mosquito encased in a protective cocoon of amber. And amber is just some old-as-shit resin that had the moisture cooked out of it. That Wal-mart tub is made out of plastic resin and the flash fire of the antique cabinet will cook the moisture out IT too....and form a the same protective cocoon.
Its frickin' genius. And I don't have to remember a combination.
But I digress.
This blog is trouble, I knew it would be and the immediate proof is that "The Gauntlet" post. I mean, The Fit Porpoise is about getting my fine, porpoise-like physique into some sort of other - less aquatic looking - shape and is the direct result of the aforementioned (though incompletely told as of this writing) "Challenge" - a very specific challenge, issued by the similarly aforementioned nice-smelling "Wives". And what do I get for my philanthropic and magnanimous efforts to enlighten you - the gentle reader - with my story?
ANOTHER FUCKING CHALLENGE!
"Do some push-up!" WAH!
"Do some sit-ups!" WAH!
"Do some pull-ups!" WAH!
Hey Oak-Tree...FUCK YOU!
Oak-Tree's issuing instructions and demanding I blog about it. That's rich. This is the fucker who got me into running a couple of years ago, got me to sign up for a half-marathon, got me running in 17degree weather at 5am in the morning because "he was too busy" to run any other time....then pulls up lame after its too late to back out.
Ever see a tree fall on a stop-sign? Pretty much what happened. And I'm left to run thru his fancy subdivision in the dark, avoiding leash less dogs with names like "Knightsbridge Squire Muldoon" and horse-flies the size of Volkswagen-beetles all because this Sequoia sized, ex high-school soccer star's calf muscle couldn't take the pounding it was getting from his
Big
Fat
Ass.
I managed 3 pull ups, 10 push ups and a knot on my head because my "pushmepullme" is setup in a closet doorway and I hit my head on the wall when I rolled back trying the sit-ups. So there. Fuck you.
BTW - that Stop Sign? Still bent from when Oak-Tree here fell on it.
The Gauntlet
The kickoff post is extraordinary but let's see if you have what it takes to follow through on the requests ...err demands on the ladies. First goal is only 7 days long. You have to use that pushme-pullme bar or whatever it is twice a day for 15 minutes (pullups, pushups, situps) and you have swim at least two times. But wait, that's not all. You also have to record said activity in this journal on a daily basis and I'll know if you are lying because I have mad internet scrying skills that should scare you. So by the time I land in Cally tonight there needs to be a post proclaiming your commitment to the 7 day gauntlet and detailing the first day of your efforts. I'll leave you with the words of Henry Ford to inspire you...or call you a wuss depending your level of commitment:
If you think you can, you can. And if you think you can't, you're right.
If you think you can, you can. And if you think you can't, you're right.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The Challenge
The Challenge
“I want my bwanky…and my Michael Phelps lunchbox…..so I can fuckin HURL in it!”
Text message sent to GotRocks Monday morning. Lets go back to the beginning so this makes sense.
So we’re sitting around the “Wake Table” –no, no one died. It’s the Wake Forest Table. Giant Bistro table thing that ways about a 1,000 pounds (trust me, I moved it) because its made out of …CEMENT. Yeah, all these centuries of developing “science”, getting burned at the stake, Inquisitioned, ex-communicated ….so we can put a sheath of plastic on our dicks so thin it makes Nicole Ritchie jealous – and it still manages to have ribs, vibrate, glow, kill diseases and of course, sperm. Yeah, all that progress, death and persecution just so Oak Tree can have a really cool college themed table….made out of fucking cement. Copernicus would shed a tear over it.
Anyway were sitting around this pinnacle of scientific achievement – doing what the human race does best, eating and getting drunk – when the subject of physical fitness comes up….again. Intigated by who? Excuse me WHOM? The wives. Now you can’t blame them, they all look good, smell great and dress pretty. Frankly we don’t deserve them – and they try, in their oh so subtle way – to make sure we fat bastards don’t forget it. Hence the spontaneous subject of physical fitness.
4:30 am practice
Got Rocks – inheritance from Robert E Lee’s….brother….hasn’t got it yet but he knows its coming…on the other hand he grew up in a borrowed trailer on a lake because outside of his mother, the rest of his family are douche-bags. So…you know…he’s got street cred.
Gay Divorcee – not gay like a cocksucker….just happy go lucky…and divorced…with puka beads…and hair. Hair that’s just a little too shiny. Seriously, John Edwards has nothing on the Gay Divorcee’s hair.
The fact that I am losing my hair has nothing whatsoever to do with my attention to this innocuous detail. Really.
Where was I?
Oh yeah. The Challenge...
“I want my bwanky…and my Michael Phelps lunchbox…..so I can fuckin HURL in it!”
Text message sent to GotRocks Monday morning. Lets go back to the beginning so this makes sense.
So we’re sitting around the “Wake Table” –no, no one died. It’s the Wake Forest Table. Giant Bistro table thing that ways about a 1,000 pounds (trust me, I moved it) because its made out of …CEMENT. Yeah, all these centuries of developing “science”, getting burned at the stake, Inquisitioned, ex-communicated ….so we can put a sheath of plastic on our dicks so thin it makes Nicole Ritchie jealous – and it still manages to have ribs, vibrate, glow, kill diseases and of course, sperm. Yeah, all that progress, death and persecution just so Oak Tree can have a really cool college themed table….made out of fucking cement. Copernicus would shed a tear over it.
Anyway were sitting around this pinnacle of scientific achievement – doing what the human race does best, eating and getting drunk – when the subject of physical fitness comes up….again. Intigated by who? Excuse me WHOM? The wives. Now you can’t blame them, they all look good, smell great and dress pretty. Frankly we don’t deserve them – and they try, in their oh so subtle way – to make sure we fat bastards don’t forget it. Hence the spontaneous subject of physical fitness.
4:30 am practice
Got Rocks – inheritance from Robert E Lee’s….brother….hasn’t got it yet but he knows its coming…on the other hand he grew up in a borrowed trailer on a lake because outside of his mother, the rest of his family are douche-bags. So…you know…he’s got street cred.
Gay Divorcee – not gay like a cocksucker….just happy go lucky…and divorced…with puka beads…and hair. Hair that’s just a little too shiny. Seriously, John Edwards has nothing on the Gay Divorcee’s hair.
The fact that I am losing my hair has nothing whatsoever to do with my attention to this innocuous detail. Really.
Where was I?
Oh yeah. The Challenge...
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