It’s been a long time people, I feel I have neglected you and for that, I am truly sorry.
Wow.
That was the most presumptuous line of feces I’ve ever written. It’s not as if I’m writing lessons on how to cure cancer. This is just a collection of ramblings from a bitter fat kid who hates working out and is pouting because his ice cream got taken away. Your lives have probably been better off without reading how ol’ bitch tits was struggling with the physics of a jumping jack.
A lot has happened in the month since the last Gravy Sweat posting. I will explain here, but please keep in mind these are not excuses, just statements of fact. If anything, I have opened up a Pandora’s Box of endless portly-fellow-blogging material with the latest turn of my life.
I am currently resting at 190 lbs on the nose. I started at 225, so I have shed 35 lbs of jiggling, pasty adipose tissue. I am resting at 190, with relatively no movement in any direction. I still play the fun Price is Right game of “Guess your Dook Weight,” and I almost always win because I know that 99% of the time, I am going to get right back down to 190. My car is getting better gas mileage, the bed doesn’t creak every time I get in it, and the zippers on all my jeans sent me a thank you card. Life seems pretty good, but in the back of my mind, I know that I still have 5 lbs to go and IT’S KILLING ME!
I wrapped up P90X a couple of weeks ago – which is almost the whole truth. I wrapped up the actual body building part and skipped the final “rest week.” It coincided with the beginning of the process of opening up my own restaurant in the Town of Windsor. My business partner and I have been working this process for about a month now and it is quite the undertaking. We will be serving home-style comfort food in a 100 seat restaurant, and lemme tell ‘ya we haven’t even really started a whole lot of construction yet, and it is already a wild ride.
This is a major hurdle for my pursuit of less fatness. See, most comfort food is made with butter, cheese, butter, pork, cheese, butter, bacon, cheese, and butter. I went through all the diet books and found nothing allowing for such fare. I DID however stumble across these guys:
Menu R&D starts next week and I am not looking forward to the struggle of balancing the above ingredients with a workout regimen (swimming time, YES!). Don’t get me wrong, there will healthy food on the menu – salads, roasted veggies, fish, free range chicken, etc., but those are not going to drive me berserk, like the other stuff will. It’s going to be a blood bath - I know it. I’m gonna mow through that shit like Fatzilla in the town of Tokyo. They’re going to have to use a spiked PVC pipe to clean out my arteries – and as punishment for my sins of gluttony – they are going to clean them out through my butthole. *GAAHHH*
This is the “New Jack City” of food. I remember they put former crack addicted Chris Rock into a meth lab as an informant and he crumbled. It kept “…Callin me, man. It just keeps callin me, man…”
Yeah, I’m totally gonna be like that with bacon….
Anyway – the vendors for your restaurant will often put on a food show to show off their products. There was one on Tuesday. It was line upon line upon line of cheese, cured meats, flour, soups, sausages, cheese, bread, spices, coffee, cheese, meat…. This thing was glorious – a collection fat chef’s sucking down free beer & wine and pretending to give a shit about what the sales person was saying, while stuffing their face with water cracker topped with Pt. Reyes Bleu Cheese, apple wood smoked bacon, and European butter. It was hilarious.
I found myself at one point subconsciously mimicking their behavior without even knowing it.
*Eats a piece of aged toma*
“So, where is your cheesery based?”
It’s actually not called a cheesery…
*Eats a sandwich made of blue cheese, peppered salami, and cracker*
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am the head cheese maker, and we are locbloghblahblahblah…”
*Eats a sandwich made only of salami and hand churned butter*
Once I realized this was going on, I made a conscious effort to stop, and take it easy. This is how I justified it; the truth is probably closer to the fact that I stopped eating because we got to the aisles with to-go packaging and kitchen products.
There was a chef there who I know from around town, and he wears a back brace, the back brace is not for his back. It acts like a bustier for his belly. He was leaning over a table talking to the hot dog guy about where he could find a chili sample, and he knocked over every last piece of shit on that table, as he walked by. The bustiered boiler was no match for the sheer physics of space, and mass. The salesman tried to act like it was no big deal, as Chef Belly walked away, but he knew he was fucked. Who was going to buy canned grilled eggplant from a guy whose table looked like someone threw up on it? After laughing at the scene, I became sad for the sales guy. Then I saw him try and secretly take a swig of some cheap-swill gin, and I knew he was going to be all right.
Stay tuned as I weave through this tense maze of food, food, beer, wine, food, beer, wine, wine, beer, food, food, and food. Should be awesome…
I got one letter last week:
I go to the gym every day before work. This means I need to pack a bag everyday with my work uniform, undergarments, and well you get it. So after turning myself into a sweaty mess I hit the showers. After taking said shower, I go to my locker to get dressed. Lo and behold, someone stole my underwear... Or i forgot to pack a pair to change into. Now there are really only three options 1. My house is 15 min in the opposite direction from work, no time to go back. 2. Go commando!! I have never gone commando in my life. It scares the hell out of me. What if i get the beans above the frank, what if I rub against my zipper all night at work and start to bleed, what if i fall and someone can see my old balls? That would be great for the guests at my restaurant, i slip fall and the entire bar sees my MESS(nobody wants to see that). 3. The only real option is, I must wear my nasty,sweaty gym underwear. Now this definitely means WBS- Wet Butt Syndrome. This happens when you have underwear that get wet and the body is dry. You get a itchy rashy ass for as long and the underwear are wet. Not to mention the incredible smell that comes from the amount of sweat that the cotton undys absorb during a workout. So the rest of the night at work I walk around trying to see if anyone is looking at me like i just farted because there is a smell coming from that guy that just walked by us. All this while trying not to scratch my ass. WBS will get you every time... Don't let it happen to you,
Thanks for the PSA, Chris. My first reaction was that this was just an excuse for Chris to tell everyone that he goes to the gym a lot. Chris is notorious for the smedium shirt, and also WHO THE FUCK STEALS UNDRWEAR!? There is some creep out there sniffing your chonies right now, dude. *shiver*
The more I read it though, the more I realized that there was a genuine fear in this. I totally share the fear of the zipper and naked junk. We all say Ben Stiller in “Something About Mary,” but really it’s more about the constant reminder of the copper interlocking teeth millimeters from your junk at all times. It rubs; it wants you to know it’s there, like my bacon addiction…. The other tragedy here is that as the cotton jockeys get wet, they become this stingy, chafing wad that do nothing in the way of support. You’re dick bag ends up hanging out the sides anyway, so what’s the point? As they get wetter, and wetter, they squish when you sit…ugh. Not a fun night, my heart indeed goes out to you, sir.
5 THINGS!
1) Chris’ letter reminded me of another challenge of sweaty underpants. As this pursuit of a restaurant continues, it becomes a Nicaraguan guerilla war. Restaurant during the day, bartending, or serving at night. Bobbing and weaving in and out of something that currently pays you, and something that (hopefully) WILL pay you. In a particularly long day, I will get what I like to call Culo El Fuego. I think it comes from my ass cheeks rubbing together over the course of a particularly active day, and it just burns and stings, and makes you gimp walk through the evening. It is entirely unpleasant, and there is nothing I can really do. Someone suggested talcum powder. Fuck talcum powder. I wear black pants at one job, and with the talcum powder, it poofs out of the pants with every other step. It ends up looking like Pacman Jones did a line off my ass at Amateur Night at the Pink Lady….
2) V8’s rule. I could drink them all day. It makes me feel like I’m drinking a bloody mary, BUT I’M NOT! It also keeps me from feeling a hunger pang every time I drive by the In N’ Out on my way to work. MMM, double double…..
3) 2 weeks off from P90X, and there is already a noticeable difference in muscle definition. Time to return all the smediums, I guess….
4) Salami rules, it really does. I would wear it as cologne if I could. After the food show on Tuesday, I had trouble getting my ring off my finger, and my shoes were a little tight. I had a hangover, and I wasn’t even drinking! Luckily I wasn’t wearing a hat, or my eyes might have popped out from the pressure. I also noticed me weener swelled, although I think that may have been for the apple wood bacon booth, and not a result of the salami…
5) It’s too late to sign up for the Sharkfest Swim from Alcatraz this year L. But it’s probably good, because it’s in June, and there is no way I am ready for that. Next year though! Anyone interested in doing it with me? Could use a training partner.
Until next time, suckas!
