The one where I search for an Eskimo Pie....

Just a quickie today, My Little Snowflakes…Oh, and sorry for being late.  2 posts in one week has proven to be too taxing on my fingers which are sore from completing two pull-ups sans chair yesterday.  Yep – during which, one eye popped completely out of its socket.  Part of my ability to survive the early stages of this weight loss program has been my capacity to laugh at my jiggling jowls, and find humor somewhere in the occasional collapse of my legs or my inability to lift a piece of tracing paper after some days.  I like to laugh.  Who doesn’t?  Every so often, something will come along that transcends anything you have ever found funny.  For me, it came this week.  Be forewarned, it is the lowest of the lowbrow.  Yet, I laughed so hard, my stomach was almost too weak to complete the ab-ripper workout.  How could it be more lowbrow than this foolishness I keep churning out every week?  Fair question, I will let you decide.  The headline may be all you need to read.

Pigs Will Eat The Poop Right Out Of Your Butt 

The genius of Drew Magary is his ability to let his readership’s own douchebaggery shine through.  Well played, Magary.  Well played, indeed.  ONTO THE 5 THINGS!

5 Things I Learned This Week

1)      Thanks to reader “Kelly @ Dare to be Domestic” who pointed out to me that certain workouts have a bonus round that Tony Horton sneakily slips in at the end.  He’ll say something like:

“Okay, we have ourselves a little bonus round now, you can skip this, or you can keep going straight through to the cool down.”

WHA, a bonus round?  HOOORRRTTTOOONNN!!  If the workout is 58 minutes long, than just make us suffer for 58 minutes.  Don’t give us the fucking option!

What purpose does this even serve?  You see, I am a subscriber in the 20-60-20 rule: it plays out like this; if you give fat people the option to pussy out of actually pushing their body to the limit:

20% will push themselves to the brink of a complete detonation of the heart, and a Chernobyl meltdown of the arteries.

60% of fat people will start the bonus round, and then go have an Eskimo Pie

20% of people will not even start the fucking bonus round, and then go and have TWO Eskimo pies out of spite. 

After hearing this from Kelly, and knowing I had the option – I was in the first 20% - because I am a dumbass, and a glutton for pain.  It actually has gotten quite weird.  I have developed this craving for the pain usually reserved in the Seventh Circle of Hell for child molesters, lawyers, rapists, and Tony Horton.  It’s not that I want to work out, because I still try and forestall every workout.  I just reach a point in every session where I think

            “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

Then I just keep going.  I’ve never had that feeling, and I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around it.    

2)      In the plyometrics workout – there is a guy with one leg.  He literally has one whole leg and prosthesis on the other leg.  First of all, I must say – prosthetics nowadays are pretty impressive.  Way nicer than the arm on Sykes from The Fugitive.  

I mean, look at that thing!  It looks like a G.I. Joe Kung Fu-Grip Hand!  How could Richard Kimble’s wife not fight this guy off?  Isn’t that thing like shitty latex or something?  It’s always bothered me.  Anywhoo, it's just another reason why Horton is a taint.  Way to make us fatties feel even more inferior than we already do, Cornhole! 

“Hey you there – Thunder Thighs – check this out!  This guy has one leg, and he is whupping that pudgy ass of yours!  What’s the matter, Man-Boobs?  Too many Eskimo Pies?"

So, my hatred for Horton has now spread like a bad case of gonorrhea to this one legged bastard plowing through this workout with no problem.  Moreover, as I stare at his stupid face hoping my gaze sets fire to his soul, I am suddenly struck by recognition of epic proportions.  The guy with one leg is Eric Stolhanske from Broken Lizard!  He portrayed such cinema classics as Rabbit, in Super Troopers!

     

  

“HEY!  BEAR FUCKER!  DO YOU NEED HELP!”

He also played Todd Wolfhaus in “Beerfest!”

Here he is, in P90X, in his entire one-legged glory.

A quick web search shows that I am not the first person to make this discovery, and no word on how he lost the leg.  It’s a good thing “Beerfest” won the Oscar for Best Movie Ever Made, or else I would have lost my shit watching this one-legged bastard outwork me through such quadriceps-ripping exercises as “Frog- Squats, or “Rock Star Jumps.”  Even the names annoy me, Horton.  I want to shove an Eskimo Pie up your stupid butthole.  In any case, hatred diverted away from hopalong guy.  Here’s to you, one-legged Erik Stolhanske!

3)      I take a lot of water breaks.  I mean a lot. 

“Oh man, my water cup is 1/8 of the way empty, I should take a break and go fill it up!”

Whenever I go, I pause the DVD.  I am now taking pride in my ability to pause on a screen shot of Tony Horton’s face in some contorted pose as if his face is in the middle of melting like the guy from Raiders of the Lost Ark.  This has become somewhat of an obsession.  If I fail to catch him making a face like he’s masturbating when no one else is home, then I feel like I’ve wasted a workout.  Here is the doozy I captured yesterday during Kung Fu Ass Panda!

4)      In the blink of an eye, I’ve lost 15 lbs.  It kind of snuck up on me.  All of a sudden, I can wear something other than black t-shirts to hide me front-butt.  So, the wardrobe has now expanded to include navy-blue t-shirts!  Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, people.  I’m not quite ready to expand into brighter colors.  I’m not looking to be cast as The Kool-Aid Guy in a live action commercial any time soon, ok?  Before, the “slimming” effects of a black t-shirt made me look like a fat guy trying to mask his fatty fatness.  Now, a black t-shirt actually makes me appear less corpulent!  Woo-hoo!  Eskimo Pie to celebrate!

5) I decided to incorporate a multi-vitamin into the ol’ diet plan, and..wow it makes the pee YELLOW.  Not goldenrod, not Dandelion, not Canary, Crayola would have to invent a new color for this level of yellowness.   I’m pretty sure that Coldplay song was about my pee.  Man, the next time I eat asparagus, it is going to be sensory overload in there…

“Soo bright, I must shield my eyes!  So stinky I must shield my nose!”

My wife, 20 minutes later: “What the hell happened in here!?  There is pee on the toilet paper roll…AND ON THE MAGAZINES!”

That's all Boys, and Girls!  Be back on Thursday!

Questions, Comments, Concerns, Political Statements, Songs, Poems, Rock Anthems, Power Ballads, or Haiku's?  Drop an email to bcbarmore@gmail.com 

My Friends are Assbags...

Welp, I suppose it had to happen sometime.  It happened this weekend, and it hit like Hurricane Katrina, leaving destruction in its wake.  Lemme ‘splain:

            Every diet says you have to have a “Cheat Day” so that you don’t go ratfuck crazy and start gnawing on your own limbs.  I think it’s a pretty fair idea, so I planned to have one this past Saturday.  A buddy of mine makes his own home brewed beer, and I’ve wanted to learn how to do it, so he invited us over to check it out. 

Of course, this turned into a backyard BBQ with about a dozen people.  I should have known then.

  When you are making homebrew, apparently you must pretend to be a beer connoisseur so that it seems as if you know what you are doing standing over that 2 trillion (approximation) BTU burner.  Ipso facto there was a cooler full of micro-brews.  I love micro brew. I love micro-brew almost as much as food.  In fact, when I am showering up after a workout I dream about the water being a fine IPA, or Porter (that is; of course, assuming I can hear my thoughts over the sound of my muscles screaming). On this day, I sampled a few but really drank the equivalent of about 2 beers.  I’ve been laying off the suds anyway for the purposes of my defattification. 

‘Twas not the beer that was my undoing, however, its rich malted, hopped splendor was no help.

With about a dozen people, you obviously need enough food to fill a U.N food drop in Somalia.  So we had a bevy of garlic dips, spinach dips, Hawaiian Chips (I fucking LOVE these), prosciutto stuffed mushrooms, tri-tip…lots of tri-tip, and of course big soft Dutch crunch rolls to make a sandwich out of ALL of that.  Oh, there was a salad, but that was simply there for posterity.  My friends, who all know that I am on a journey (FUCK-THERE IT IS AGAIN) – I mean, plan  - to being less grotesque, paid it no mind as they egged me on….

“You think you’re done, bitch-tits!?  There’s still a basket full of moist brownies, gooey chocolate chip cookies, and whoa, what’s this!?  Is that a box full of cupcakes that someone brought!?!?!  Whoa, Nelly!  Batten down the hatch, THIS SHIT IS ABOUT TO GET REAL!”    

I have a bit of a sweet tooth.  Not so much for candy, but I go apeshit for baked goods.  I mean, I literally change into the Incredible Hulk with an insatiable rage – although I’m more like the Unremarkable Hulk, with an insatiable appetite.  I’d punch every face on a school bus full of pre-schoolers if it were between a cookie and me.

If you’ve been following along – you can probably sense where this is going.  After gorging myself with enough red meat to induce a massive coronary, which was AFTER eating enough appetizers to make my liver into Foie Gras, I started in on the cookies…

…and the brownies

…and the cupcakes…

…and the cookies again.

One friend – the one who brought the cupcakes – cut them into little pieces so everyone could try what they wanted – how nice!  Now, I am less likely to choke as I make my cookie/brownie/cupcake/tri-tip burrito. 

FUCK YOU FOR JUDGING ME ALREADY!  I implore you, take pity on me; for, Tony Horton exacted his wrath upon me tenfold for my gluttony.

Approximately 20 minutes later, as my stomach finally got around to telling me that I was full after the first few stuffed mushrooms, I became extremely uncomfortable. 

I am fairly certain, that if I were to eat another bite of food, I would have perished.  No bullshit…

 

The spirit of Tony Horton – that fervent little jizzwad – then manifested itself through all that masticated food, formed into a midget like a mini-Voltron and began to Kenpo punch me repeatedly in my spine, kidney, stomach, intestines, diaphragm, and lungs.  He did pull-ups from my rib cage, and did plymotrics on my liver.  Oh, sweet Lord how I loathed myself for the rest of the evening. 

By the way – the gluttony took place in the mid afternoon, which means that until I went to bed I suffered – approximately 8 hours of wanting to stab myself in the belly button in hopes that all the evil would come spewing forth…

The following day, I did the Kenpo workout.  I swapped the off day and the Kenpo day, as we had to do a bit of traveling to get to my buddy’s place. 

I particularly enjoy the Kenpo (aka Kung-Fu Ass Panda) workout.  It is an opportunity for me to pretend that I am Bruce Wayne training himself for a life as the Dark Knight.  I will often catch myself in the mirror during this workout (fucking mirrored closet doors) and realize that I am not Bruce Wayne at all.  I am more like this guy…

How's that for an image burned into your memory?

That is all for this bonus blog post.  Be back on Friday, my little snowflakes.

Bring the Pain

I’ve been working out for 2 weeks and all I’ve got to show for it is an incendiary, soul crushing pain throughout my entire body. It’s soreness on a level I have never comprehended. Wow. My wife rolls her eyes when I moan and groan about it, but she also went through all natural childbirth.  This makes her the equivalent of the kid that always messes up the grading curve in college.  It also might mean, SHE IS NOT HUMAN!

If you read this foolishness last week, you’d know that we were anxiously awaiting the pull up bar and resistance bands. They arrived last Friday. Fuck Them.

First of all, the pull up bar requires you to assemble it. AWESOME. This means that the fact I am the least handy person on the planet will finally bite me on my jiggly ass as the infernal contraption disintegrates midway through a shitty pull-up and I plummet to a ghastly demise.  Surprisingly, this has not happened…but it will! 

The bands are exactly what I thought they would be: stretch bands of varying thickness forged from the fibers of Judas Chair tethers. This means two things: they are EVIL and make you want to hang yourself, and they make you feel like a pussy because everyone on the DVD is using weights, BIG HEAVY MAN WEIGHTS! Oh, there’s a guy who uses the bands, but they make him workout in the back corner where you can barely see him. 

“You can use the bands, if you’re a cake eating pickle kisser.  However, I’m going to lift two Mini Coopers for this exercise.  As for you band-boy, INTO THE CARE BEAR CORNER FOR YOU!!!”     

As the new instruments of malice are now here, it means we have started on the full workout regimen as laid out by Cornhole Jenkins (aka Tony Horton) and his minions.  Actually, this is much better then aimlessly choosing the workout that looks like it sucks the least.  It means that there is a predetermined order of things.  Regimented suffering is far better than directionless suffering.  At least you feel like you are accomplishing something.  In addition, it makes you sound manly when talking to people.

“Yeah, I worked the arms and back today, (strategically leaving out that Yoga is on Thursday) I’ll be hammering the legs and back on Friday…”

The diet continues on as well. Like I said last week, we’ve pretty much developed an effective diet that works for us. Sort of a Weight Watcher, South Beach hybrid.  As expected, the side effects of this high fiber, high protein diet have hit the house like the Jericho Missile from Iron Man.  I will periodically walk into a room in the house, and my wife will declare AFTER I’VE ENTERED that the area is unfit to support human life.  No time to alter my route, no time to mentally prepare, not even enough time for the useless “T-Shirt-Over-Mouth-&-Nose” maneuver…before I know it - it’s in my mouth.

Being a portly 12 year old stuck in a portly 28 year-old body, I retaliate accordingly.

“Hey – is someone making popcorn?”

-Wife Takes Deep Whiff – “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?”

But I digress…sort of.  Recall from the beginning of today’s blog that at this time my body is retaliating against my ill-advised determination with soreness, and occasional failure to follow through on my commands. 

            “You know? I don’t think I will let you grab the milk from the bottom shelf of the fridge right now.  Do another lunge, assface…”

My body’s hatred for me manifests itself in all facets of life, but none more drastically than in the loo….  

Never before have I been more acutely aware of the placement of a toilet paper roller in relation to the orientation of the commode.  Ours is WAY to far back.  It requires me turn more than the seventy-five degrees that I am currently capable from a sitting position.  Furthermore, the holder is too small for a full roll of T.P. and it does not dispense freely.  A simple tug only yields HALF OF A FUCKING SQUARE. 

This means that not only do I have to turn much too far in my current state. I also have to hold that position while I manipulate the roll into yielding enough paper to avoid making a mess.  My core screams, my shoulders cry, my arms literally shake, and my legs are asleep, it is pure agony.

-Ok, Ok. My legs being asleep has nothing to do with the workout – more so the fact that I have been sitting there Fecebooking (the act of Facebooking while dropping a deuce) for 40 minutes.  Don’t judge me.

5 THINGS I LEARNED THIS WEEK:

1)      My ego has barely had time to cope with the fact I cannot do a single good pushup, and now it has become obvious that a good pull-up or chin-up is completely out of the question.  They show you how to use a chair or stool as a spotter, but that only ends up putting my leg(s) through a workout they didn’t ask for.  I tried to hang there for a second and I am sure the house shifted under the weight.  I cannot yet confirm but I swear I saw some picture frames go crooked and heard the house groan. I stood across the street and tried to determine if the house was leaning, but I couldn’t tell. Even with the chair, I am petrified that my hands are going to rip clear of my arms at the wrist at any moment. 

2)      Thinking further about #1 – I would not be able to survive with 2 stumps at the end of my arms.  I tried for 10 minutes today to see what it would be like by pulling my hands into my sweatshirt sleeves.  It was not pretty.  Especially when I tried to unroll the T.P.  Fuck that….       

3)      Every single workout is the MOTHER of all p90x workouts.  Every single one. Cornhole Jenkins declares this at the beginning of each DVD.  I find this infuriating.  Just when I’ve developed a dysfunctional mother-son relationship with the plyometrics DVD, you go and spring this on me?  Eat Ben Roethlisberger’s gray penis, Horton!

4)      There are some awkward stances involved in using the resistance bands for weight training.  It is critical that you make sure the band is secured under your foot, or it might break free mid-lift.  Ever do that thing where you are playing with the rubber band from the newspaper, and it snaps on your hand?  It’s like that, only bigger. And it hits you right in the peepee. 

5)      Despite all of my whimpering things are progressing nicely, and I am having fun venting into the blogosphere.  Stay tuned this weekend for a bonus blog post involving my attempt at the Kenpo X workout. Or as I like to call it: “Kung Fu Ass Panda!”

Questions, Comments, Concerns, Political Statements, Songs, Poems, Rock Anthems, Power Ballads, or Haiku's?  Drop an email to bcbarmore@gmail.com !       

             

So It Begins...

Hello, my name is Brad, and I am a fat bastard. Not like this guy, but at the rate I'm going, It won't be long. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me, or marvel at my work ethic. Eating a banana and then doing 4 pushups before tangibly vurping is not something to marvel at anyway. I'm not going on some "journey" like some of those slobs on TV, either. This is just an attempt at being held accountable for something. I figure the more people I get to look at how ponderously round I've become, the more likely I'll be to feel the need to do something about it, because apparently watching my wife dry heave every time I do the truffle shuffle, isnt enough motivation.


*Sigh* It's only hilarious when he does it. When I do it, someone barfs....


Here we go.

My wife and I decided to go on this journey (FUCK!) - I mean take this on together. After having gone through about a week of this already - I am convinced she is doing it with me so she can constantly remind me how big of a pussy I am. Oh, she acts all supportive - but I CAN FEEL HER JUDGING ME!!!
We have started the P90X program workout program, and a Weight Watcher Diet program. The WW program is perfect for foodies (aka - fatties with no will power, self respect, or dignity) like me because you can eat what you want - you just have a food budget. 
"Want a slice of pizza?  Go ahead - but then you don't eat again until June, asshole." 
It does work out pretty well, though. My wife and I have figured out how to make it work for us. So surprisingly, the diet has been the easy part. 

The workout program - or as I like to call it: Satan's Steeplechase is another matter. Don't get me wrong, it's OUTSTANDING, but: as a result of how outstanding it is - you spend approximately 60 minutes of every day cursing the birth canal of Tony Horton's mother for spewing forth this turd nugget of Lucifer into our world. Oh how I loathe Horton for those 60 minutes. He makes me want to take a bubble bath in aspirin and bourbon.... He does; however, say enough douchey things to fill up 90 days worth of this blog, so I should thank him.   

We ordered a pull up bar and some weights that are necessary and are awaiting their arrival so we've only done some of the workouts - out of order. The reality is these workouts are great and wifey and I are already seeing results. 

5 Things I learned this week:

1) I cannot do a good pushup. Not one. I get half way down and my arms feel like my humerus bones are going to splinter through my pasty underarm flab, bitch tits, rib cage, and puncture my already weezing lungs. So I do them from my knees for now. I have put my man card in the safe deposit box at the bank...

2) Nothing makes you feel fatter than doing jumping jacks in your home by yourself and having a picture in another room fall off the wall...I just know my wife has a glass of water out like the T-Rex scene in Jurassic Park when I do that workout.

3) Working out with your spouse or loved one seems like a good idea.  DON'T DO IT!  She looks hot doing it, but you do not. You think sliding over and smacking her butt cheek at every opporunity is hilarious until she sweeps the leg. Oh -  and everytime you take a COMPLETELY unecessary water break, you will feel guilty/ashamed that she has powered through the entire workout. You may have jumped higher than her during the warm up, but if you were having to jump over unending waves of poisonous death beetles for over an hour....she wouldn't be the one that died would she?  WOULD SHE?

4) Yoga is NOT for pussies. I never really thought so; but, I DID think it would be something I would enjoy doing.
"Maybe if I do yoga I'll add a few inches onto my reach!
I'm an idiot. 
All my body did was stretch out a little bit but the snap back together like it was made out of the same material as a gumball machine sticky hand. Also please refer to #3 when doing Yoga. Nothing earns you the face searing death stare faster than commeting on how every position she gets into looks bonerific. 
I've been having PTSD flashbacks of Yoga day ever since.....

5) I learned that despite the violent, irascible, rage I feel towards this smug fuckface of a trainer vomiting fitness enthusiasm all over me. I do feel better, and my feeble fitness will grow stronger over time. In the meantime, I am going to go longingly look at a bottle of bourbon for an hour, then drive by the Jack in the Box in the rain.....

Questions, Comments, Concerns, Political Statements, Songs, Poems, Rock Anthems, Power Ballads, or Haiku's?  Drop an email to bcbarmore@gmail.com !