The Rise of Fattimus Prime...

Do you remember Gak?  It was this slimy, malleable substance promoted and sold by Nickelodeon in the early ‘90’s.  It jiggled when you shook it, it hardened if you left it out over night, but if you kept it in its container, it stayed fat-boy tit jiggly.  The #1 thing I remember is that when you pressed it back into its star-shaped container it made a tremendous fart noise, a good juicy one, too.  For the longest time, my body has been a lot like Gak. 

           

When you shook me I jiggled.  If you left me out over night – I didn’t really harden but an overnight eating/drinking bender rendered me useless the next day.  The color of my skin is unnatural and overall unpleasant.  When you pressed my midsection, I too would release a gooey juicy fart.  The main difference is that my diet made that gooey, juicy fart smell horrendous.  Like Gak, I grossed out anyone over the age of 8.  Anyone under the age of eight thought I was that starfish, Patrick from SpongeBob.     

           

Something has changed, though.  I have become less Gakish.  It didn’t happen overnight.  In fact, I didn’t even really notice until this weekend.  I started working at a new restaurant this weekend, bartending and developing a cocktail program for a restaurant in Geyserville (shameless plug alert) called Catelli’s.  Nick is one of my closest friends and I’m excited to be there.  I digress.  I showed up for my first day on Saturday and they gave me my t-shirt.  The Chef hands me a medium and a large. 

Me: “A medium?”

Dominica: “Yeah, they’re all I have.  I don’t have an XL.  It’s ok though, they run big, and you’re doing well on your diet!”

Me: “You heard about that?  Jeez, Word gets around”

Dominica: “I’ve been reading about it!  Just try it on.”

I went into the bathroom and tried the medium on.  She was right.  It did run big.

IF I WAS FRODO FUCKING BAGGINS! 

I could barely fit it over my shoulders (which are broad – not from working out – just from being comprised of spare parts from my mother’s womb), let alone over my boiler.  Every last fiber of that t-shirt stretched to its absolute limit like Spiderman’s webs in Spiderman 2 when he stops the train.  It will never be the same.  I finally got it off – it looked like I was trying to be Hulk Hogan but failing miserably at tearing it off.  The person who ends up with that shirt is going to look like they got raped by a spider monkey    

I held the large up and gave it a gander.

“Fuck.”

It also did not appear to run big.  It was my first day, and I was not in a position to learn the ins and outs while being mercilessly ridiculed by Nick, who has a history of doing so.  (recall the asscyst/NBA comment from a few weeks ago…).  The last thing I needed was to be called out for wearing a smedium for the rest of my career.  In trepidation, I put it on. 

THE.FUCKING.THING.FIT.

I was shocked.  It was a little tight over my shoulders and as a result, it was a little tight on my arms – which look like spaghetti noodles still…thanks a fucking million, Horton.  Still, it fit comfortably.  I was shocked.  I haven’t warn a large since college, and even then it was hit or miss what size would fit over my Elephant Man shoulders.

It was at that moment, I realized that this 2 month (and counting) fiasco is actually working.  I will not look like Horton when this is all done.  Probably more like Pam the Blam:

At least I won’t look like John Belushi’s long lost fatter cousin.  I still have a long way to go.  My nipples still make eye contact with my big toes, and I am still on the cusp of “B Word Gravitas”

I am weighing in at 202 as of today.  I started at 225, and am aiming for 185.  The last 15 pounds are supposed to be the hardest – which means you better not make any plans, Horton.  We’re about to have a fucking fiesta of death.  It’s gonna look like a Robert Rodriguez film during these last few weeks.  I’m probably going to end up shitting out my spleen, and barfing a lung. 

Can’t Wait.

TONY HORTON HATERADE SCREEN GRAB OF THE WEEK!

I call it: "I think I may have pooped."

5 Things!

1)      My wife hates me.  Seriously.  The wife makes cakes as a side gig.  I’ve mentioned this before.  Last weekend, she baked the sheet cakes at our house and then we transported them to the In-Law’s house, where the client would be picking them up.  Apparently it was more convenient for everyone.  It’s a one-hour drive give, or take a few minutes to the In Laws.  We don’t have a large car.  It’s a little sedan/SUV crossover.  The boy sits in his car seat in the backseat; the dog sits next to him.  The back of the car is loaded with stroller, overnight bags, diaper bag, etc.  The cake cannot go in the back due to shifting contents; it cannot go in the back seat because the dog will eat and or shit on it.  I had to ride for ONE HOUR with a freshly baked cake on my fucking lap.  Oh, it was in the box, but the box is not smell proof.  I was like Jack Black in Tropic Thunder after about 15 minutes with that thing in my lap.  There was a serious conversation about the necessity of handcuffing my hands behind my back for the entirety of the ride.  (Pay no attention as to why we have handcuffs.  These aren’t the droids you are looking for…) My legs are like semi-hardened butter rolls, and are not flat surfaces. This meant I also had to hold the cake, in case my wife decided to drive like Stevie Wonder in “Fast & Furious IX – Blind Speed.”  She didn’t decide to do that.  She just wanted to incapacitate me so I could not manipulate the radio dial.  This I now know with absolute certainty: The Black Eyed Peas suck the goat’s ass.  They used to be good – pre-Fergie.  The arrival of Fergie began the suckage.  Since the arrival, they have declined into an even worse state of goat-rectal suckage.  Unbelievable.  I know this because that fucking song Time of My Life came on about 7 times during the 65-minute ride.  Apparently, a 14-year-old girl with ADD runs each and every Bay Area top 40 station.  FUCK!

2)      I love beans.  Green beans, garbanzos, black beans, pintos, edamame beans, I really love them.  I try and find a way to work them into every meal we make at the house.  I love the way they taste, I love how good they are for you.  Most of all I love the havoc they wreak roughly 2 hours after the meal.  The diet has improved so much that the smell of the emissions has lessened over time.  It’s disappointing, but there is new joy.  My son is 10 months old, and has discovered how to make fart noises with his mouth.  He doesn’t know they're fart noises he just likes making sounds.  If I do a particularly loud one, he laughs and starts making the sounds all over again.  He is amazed at how I can make the same sounds without using my mouth.  On the rare occasion that we eat red meat, the noxious stench returns.  When this happens, I try and time each rip simultaneously when the boy is making his sounds.  This way it blends together and it has the same effect of a silent but deadly.  A true butt-ninja will utilize his surroundings as a means to the end.  As a result, my wife is none the wiser.  Whatever, she deserves it for the cake debacle.

3)      Upon further contemplation, my wife’s family also hates me.  My mother-in-law brought over a few Peanut Butter Snickers yesterday.  She offered me one, but I politely declined.  Simultaneously, in my mind, I was playing out the entire scenario where I pounce on those little fuckers and demolish them with merciless abandon.  As I snapped back to reality, I hear her say “It’s okay to have some.  They're new!”  Apparently, the newness of an unhealthy food completely negates its lack of nutritional value.  When the next big thing from Reese’s comes out, I’m gonna snatch up as many as I can.  They’ll be new, so it’ll be like eating a handful of bean sprouts.  PERFECT!  It was the silliest justification I’ve ever heard.  It was all I needed.  I fuckin’ had one.

4)       I learned of my hatred for the “World Famous Karen Pot-Stirrers.”  These are typically done at the end of the workout.  You bend over, and let one arm hang down and dangle while moving it in a circular motion.  It actually is a nice stretch after an upper body workout, but I hate them because I don’t know who the fuck Karen is.  I also hate them because Horton insists on asking everyone what kind of soup they are making.  Of course, everyone says their making a bowl of pretentious with a side of self-righteous: I’m making non-dairy corn chowder!  I’m making tomato basil!  I’m making low sodium lentil!  Suck a spikey dick!   I just want him to shove a corncob in his pie-hole.  No one is making any soup, asshole.  They are stretching and trying to finish this video before they pass out, and fall forward onto their head and dangling arm.  We’re all fat remember?  If I pass out onto my arm, it will lose circulation and slowly die like the castration of a bull.  Just shut your mouth so I can concentrate on not losing an arm.  If I were making soup though, it would be bacon, sausage, ham, bourbon, and onion ring chowder.  When Cambell’s makes that shit, I’m gonna get it right away – so it’ll be like eating a rice cake. 

5)      It’s glorious to be able to see your toes.  So, so glorious!

Have a great weekend, party people!