Sweaty Underpants and Other Quandaries

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!         

            

An Introspective into Boogerdom

         

   This winter has sucked the long and veiny, and not just because of the biblical weather either.  I was stricken with a cold in December, and there are still lingering effects.  DECEMBER! 

            Actually, I misspoke.  There is only one lingering effect, and it poses a huge problem.  It took about a week to get over the congestion and body aches, but ever since the cold, I have been epically boogery.  It has been a venerable smorgasbord of wet ones, dry ones, and the elusive wet/dry combo.  This poses a huge problem because I am a chronic nose picker.  I find little more pleasurable than clearing my nasal passages by harvesting a leviathan booger steak.  That first breath of unrestricted air is magnificent.  My second favorite pick is the one where the nostril boulder has broken free of the nose hairs, has fallen to just above the nose-hole, and begins to tickle every time you breathe.  It falls at such an odd angle that you almost have to dislocate your own wrist to get at it.  The removal of that worthy adversary is quite satisfying.  Of course, the bitch of all boogs is the one that breaks mid pick, and results in an annoying whistle every time you inhale.  That sucks a crusty goat tit. 

            Don’t confuse booger picker with booger eater.  That’s not my style.  I am a professional.  Clean, quick, and I’m out - like a nostril haggis hit man.  The removal of the harvested goods is usually handled by a tissue, and/or a quick hand wash.  I often wonder what havoc is wreaked on a sink drain.  Does liquid plumber have an anti-booger compound in it?

            Generally, I am quite disgusted by what I extract from my snozz, which is ridiculous.  It’s analogous to the person who comes over and sniffs the air after a fart has been declared then complains about how bad it stinks.  My sister was notorious for this.

ME: “Oh man, that one’s going to stink.”

SISTER: (Walks over and smells) “OHMYGOD!  That smells awful, you’re disgusting.”

ME: “I warned you.”

SISTER: “Why do you have to that around me!?”

ME: “I didn’t.  You walked over here (Rips another).”

SISTER: “GET OUT OF HERE!”

ME: “Enjoy the essence.  You’re welcome.”

            I’ll pick a good wet one, and then almost gag when looking at it.  The enjoyment is so short lived.  BUT I ALWAYS GO BACK!  It’s stupid, and I need to kick the picker habit, I just kicked the bacon for every meal habit.  One vice at a time…  A question in Drew Magary’s funbag this week (we are fellow pickers!) got me wondering about the nutritional value of boogers.  A quick internet search revealed boogers as a supplier of upwards of 40 calories depending on the size!  40 calories is quite substantial.  Eat 3 of those, and you’ve got yourself a Weight Watcher microwave dinner!    

I don’t plan on utilizing them as a snack; I was just wondering if we’ll ever see Bear Gryllis in Man vs. Wild eat his own boogers rather than biting the head off of a meerkat.  I would like to sit and watch him build a makeshift rotisserie out of soaked tree branches over an open flame and roast a few skewered, freshly harvested boogs.  I think it would be wildly entertaining to listen to him try and justify it as a means of nutrition, even though society denigrates booger eating as the work of slobs and special kids.  Perhaps Gryllis’ work as a booger eating survivalist would inspire The Chairman on Iron Chef to present boogers as the secret ingredient.  I could just imagine the look on Bobby Flay or Michael Symon’s face as the lid comes off the table, and the Chairman declares “BOOOOOOOGGEEERRRS!!!!”  It would be superb.  Booger ice cream, booger risotto, booger tar tare, booger soup, booger en papillote, braised booger….

My imagination is out of control…

   

            In the beginning of this experiment in de-plumping, my wife went after it with me.  She was good at some of the workouts.  Constantly judging and laughing, laughing and judging.  It was hell; nothing is more emasculating than watching your wife crush a 56-minute plyo workout while your own man tits clap together with every jump.  After the first few weeks, her energy level began to plummet.  She could barely power through the workouts.  She was losing weight, but her energy level wasn’t there.  We chalked it up to the ramped up workload watching the little crumb snatchers at her newly licensed day care she runs out of our home.  I began to lord it over her as if I had accomplished some monumental feat that she failed.  Completing 4 push-ups without shitting yourself is a small personal victory…but that’s just semantics.    

As I spent the majority of my childhood, adolescent, and teenage years swimming competitively, it should come as no surprise that MY BOYS CAN SWIM! 

FUCK OFF, CAREFUL PRECATION AND BREAST FEEDING!  YOU CANNOT DEFEAT MY SEMINAL SAVAGES!  THEY STORMED THE CASTLE AND PREVAILED!

            Very exciting, this little one is due October 8^th which means our kids will be 18 months apart.  As we did with our son, we will not be finding out the sex of the baby, either.  It was a cool thing to add to the excitement of a newborn.  We are BEYOND thrilled, and love that our family is growing.  However, there is a diabolical thought building on itself in my head.

She did this on purpose to get out of the workout and diet.  She wanted to eat pasta, and bacon, and sausage, and pancakes, and burgers, and cookies, and GAAGHAGAHA!!! HOW DARE SHE?

           

            There is a fatal flaw in that argument.  My wife eats even better when she is pregnant.  She becomes far more cognizant of preservatives, fat; she balances out her calorie intake, more fruits, and more veggies, only chicken no steak.  She becomes a fucking nutritionist.  Therefore, she probably didn’t do it on purpose, BUT SHE COULD HAVE, and that’s the point.  She abandoned me amidst my own sweat and jiggling pasty skin.  I am so alone.  She’s got the mommy glow though, and that’s sexy.  So, there is that…she is forgiven.

5 THINGS!

1)      Working out has become a must have part of daily life.  There have been a few days where I just can’t commit the hour to hang with Horton Beelzebub III.  On those days, I feel incomplete.  I have less energy and I feel fat again.  It’s crazy.  I’m going to have to start getting up earlier to avoid those days.  Therefore, despite the end being near, Horton has found a way to fuck up my comfort zone yet again.  My arch nemesis strikes again!

2)      I have no intention of starting this process immediately over again after it is finished.  I love the results, and I love how it has altered my lifestyle, but during the hour I spend doing the workouts I detest it with fervent ardor.  That doesn’t seem right to me.  I know workouts are supposed to be hard, and that if you are pushing yourself you feel like you are going to shit through your mouth.  Nevertheless, there is supposed to be something rewarding in that, right?  Am I being a douche bag idealist here?  In any case, I will probably come back to P90X in late August, so that I can really trim down for the holidays in which I will gorge myself like a grizzly bear storing food for hibernation.  In the meantime, I am going to get back in the pool 5 days a week.  Keep it centered on training for an event (yet to be decided).  No worries though, the gravy sweat blog will continue!  This has been way too much fun, and it has accomplished what I needed it to (accountability).  It would be a shame to shut it down just because I survived the 3-month P90analrapeX. 

3)      This is really a continuation of #2 (haha #2), but I’m still a little preoccupied with my Iron Chef booger daydream to still be creative.  I think the evolution of Gravy Sweat will be to educate.  I’m not going all self-righteous or anything.  I’m not going to share workout tips, or profess the best way to shed pounds, or denigrate the evils of deep fried garlic mashed potatoes made served with a ketchup/mustard/mayo/bourbon dipping sauce.  If you want to eat that, it should be your prerogative (although I will share the recipe if I stumble across it).  Consider Gravy Sweat to be an open forum.  If you have questions, comments, statements, or general observations about fitness, diet, or life in general and would like to bounce them off of me, please e-mail them to bcbarmore@gmail.com.  We will share them here.  It’s a little bit of a rip-off of Drew Magary’s Funbag, but I justify that having it only be about fat, fat, and fat! 

4)      The yoga workout makes me have to take a dump.  Everytime.  That is all.

5)      When dieting properly, the size of your appetite does not necessarily shrink.  It just manifests itself constantly throughout the day.  However, your stomach cannot hold as much food at one time as it did when you were built like Donkey Lips from “Salute Your Shorts."

   

Tuesday night marked the 22^nd birthday of my sister in law.  We went to Old Chicago Pizza.  Old Chicago is a Shangri-la of deep-dish goodness.  Cheesy, doughy, packed-to-the-brim goodness brought to this world by the scores of seraphim themselves.  It is a corpulent jabroni’s paradise.  The whole family met up, and I was geared up to crush some pizza.  I’d been good for a while, and I had budgeted to walk in there and go Desperado on about 3 pieces of pie.  3 don’t sound like an amazing feat.  I assure you it is.  These things are 2 inches deep, and with 3+ toppings, it makes Man vs. Food look like a pussy.  We sat down, I ordered a frosty pint of brown ale, strapped in, and announced to the world to keep their fingers inside the ride at all times.  Then I fucked up.  I ordered a salad.  Rookie mistake.  Careless, cocky, rookie fucking mistake.  It was delicious, but that’s not the point.  I got about halfway into my first slice, and broke a sweat.  MY FIRST SLICE!  The key strategy is you have to stop at the crust and save it for later.  You mow through the topped portion of the pie, set the 2-inch deep crust to the side, and pick up the next slice.  When you reach your goal slice, you start working the crusts through the pepperoni oil, cheese, crushed red peppers, and any other toppings that have fallen off the beasts and accumulated on the plate (or on your shirt, but wiping a pizza crust on your shirt only exacerbates the slob situation).  Sometimes you don’t get through all the crusts.  That’s ok, because you just budget your fallen toppings accordingly, and if done correctly there is nothing left to sop up anyway.  It’s glorious.  In this particular incident, I was forced to make a decision far too early.  I could try and get through two slices, but probably be too full for the crust delight.  Alternatively, I could get through the entire first slice, crust and all and eliminate any possibility of getting a second slice – the crust would assuredly put me over the edge.  I chose the latter.  I know I made the right choice, but that doesn’t mean I had to like it.  It was all because I ordered that fucking salad.  A blue-cheese wedge.  Fuck salads.  They are evil.

UNTIL NEXT WEEK, MY LITTLE SNOWFLAKES!                   

        

Beer and Bloating in Las Vegas

           I went to Las Vegas this weekend.  My Dad lives there, and every year all my uncles and aunt head down there for a weekend of depravity.  Due to my employ in a high workload, low compensation, & soul sucking industry I never had the opportunity to go.  Since I am not working in the same capacity anymore, I took the opportunity to make the trip this year.  I don’t really gamble a lot – I made one bet at the sports book, (a 3-team parlay that was going to take all day to play out that fucking lost in the first game.  Thanks a lot Virginia Tech you slack-jawed hog-fuckers) – I go to Vegas to cram unholy amounts of various fares into my pie hole.  I don’t stop eating. Ever.  Why would you?  At every turn, there is something awesome to put in your face.  The fact you can carry a beer anywhere you want can cloud your judgment.  However, if what you pick isn’t awesome…THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE 6 FEET AWAY!!!

“Ooh look!  There’s a FatBurger!  Lemme finish this Chimichanga and we’ll go in.  I want to get a bite before we head into the Brazilian Steakhouse.”

I try and stay away from the siren song of the endless buffets.  It’s difficult because $4.99 per person is an absolute steal.  However, like I said I go to Vegas to eat, and a buffet is just a black hole of overeating that keeps you from the variety of Vegas food. 

We actually went to a buffet at the Red Rock Casino and Resort (which is like 12 miles off the strip and awesome – I will never stay on the strip again – seriously).  This buffet turned my theory on its ear.  Literally – everywhere you looked at this place; there was a different type of cuisine.  Asian, sushi, American, BBQ, Mexican, Bakery, “Health Bar.”  It was glorious.  One of my uncles came back with a plate of scrambled eggs, prime rib, green beans, and hollandaise sauce.  Another one came back with scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes, and some egg rolls.  We were in fat boy heaven. At one point, I contemplated getting a double scoop ice cream cone wrapped in prime rib topped with bleu cheese and some onion rings.  The line was too long at the prime rib station though….

I was actually good at the buffet.  I had scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, fruit, and a whole wheat everything bagel.  This was only because of the high-octane shit I was gorging on the previous day, and in anticipation for the continued overindulgence that was surely to follow. 

By the time I got back I was ready for anything green.  My body was done with animal fat.

My plan of restaurant guerilla warfare was put in jeopardy the night I got there.  I came down with the stomach flu that plagued my poor wife and son earlier in the week.  It lasted less than 24 hours, but it made me spew forth refuse from both ends.  Nothing like trying to keep from diarrheaing all over the hand towels while you violently barf things you ate back in high school.  It set in on Thursday evening, but by Friday morning, I was back at full strength. 

CRISIS AVERTED.

There is nothing like Las Vegas, Nevada to re-motivate you to keep working out.  It is a confluence of joggling jows, F.U.P.A’s, cankles, and pasty white thigh fat.  So splendid in all its grandeur was it that I could nary pull me eyes from it.  I barely remembered to play my favorite game.  It’s called “What-The-Fuck-Couples.”  It’s a game played by two or more people where you search for the most mismatched couples possible.  For example: you might see a smoking hot female with a mouth-breathing blob in a t-shirt that says “I Fuck On the First Date,” basketball shorts, a fanny pack, and some sandals with socks (actual sighting from the weekend).  If you were to stumble across such an enchanting couple, you would say

“What the fuck is she doing with that guy?”

Everyone then looks perplexed at the Dr. Moreau experiment and laughs, then makes the assumption that he must have paid.  It’s not limited to attractive womenfolk though.  It can play the other way.  There might be a well put together gentleman, trim, man-scaped and well dressed with a girl in a spaghetti strap top where the straps cut into the skin like butchers twine on a pork loin, there is an atomic camel toe (where the bottoms of the legs of the shorts also appear to have been swallowed by her vajayjay) and thigh-high zip-up boots where the zipper is stretched so tightly the teeth of it look like The Joker’s diabolical grin (another actual sighting from the weekend).  You would say

“What the fuck is he doing with that girl?”

Again, everyone gawks at the couple, laughs, and agrees that he must be the gay friend.  Yes, it’s awful, shallow, and mean spirited.  Really though, it’s about a hopeful recognition that true love does exist and connection is made beyond what is apparent to the eye. 

*Vurp*

My favorite thing about the weekend had to occur on the first day of the trip before I even left the Bay Area.  I was sitting in the airport at the gate listening to the iPod, doing mini, ninja head bangs, and air guitar, and trying to figure out whom I did not want to sit next to on the plane, when I noticed another man of similar stature to my own.  He also had his iPod on, similarly playing out his rock-god fantasy.  For a split second, we made eye contact, and from that moment, it most certainly…WAS ON!

For the next 5 minutes before boarding was announce ensued a mini air guitar and drum battle the likes of which have never been seen!  Neither one of us wanted the other to rock harder.  I would play a little guitar solo with a foot tap, then he would play a little air drums, and a couple of small head bangs.  I would drum on my kneecaps, and then he would do an air bass guitar.  It was intense.  At one point, he began mouthing the words to his music, but I thought that was gay so I put a little something extra into my next air-guitar solo. 

The hilarious thing about this is that we are both air-rocking on a small scale while trying to stay simultaneously extreme and subdued so as not to catch anyone’s eye.  It was like a ninja battle of the bands.  When I finally boarded the plane (don’t get me started on the Southwest Airlines free-for-all) he was already sitting.  There was a tiny nod of feigned mutual respect between us.  I knew; however, he was thinking the same thing I was.

“I out rocked you, and you know it.  Stick to the Beiber tunes, pal.”

Screen Grab of the Week!

"I'm doing curls with my shlong"

Cinco Thingo’s!!

1)      Fuck Girl Scouts.  Not literally.  If you thought that, turn yourself in right now.  Figuratively, fuck Girl Scouts.  I figured out why people give up on their New Year’s resolution to lose weight by the end of March.  It’s because of Girl Scout cookies.  They’re delicious (Samoas, Tagalongs, Thin Mints – if you say there is any other kind…kindly stop reading), but they are evil.  The boxes are small, but misleading.  They appear to be big.  You eat 3 cookies, then 3 more cookies, and then the box is half-gone, so you figure you better just finish it off and then have a chaser of 8 Thin Mints.  You know, to cleanse the palate.  I returned from my Vegas nom fest planning to return to my regularly scheduled diet.  Lo and behold, boxes of Girl Scout cookies sitting on the kitchen counter.  We know of my propensity to treat cookies like meth after a 4-day attempt at staying clean.  This was not a good development.  My wife even put a box of Thin Mints in the freezer (the only way to eat Thin Mints…how do you eat them?  Room temp?  That’s for chumps.)  I am powerless to resist them.  Fuck You Girl, Scouts.  Fuck.You.

2)      Vegas fucks with you.  We went and saw BeatleShow at Planet Hollywood (which was awesome, I swear I was watching the actual Beatles.  Great stuff).  The cocktail waitress comes to our seats and offers drinks.  My Dad and I order a cocktail, and she asks us if we want smalls or larges.  She makes a distinction with her thumb and forefinger.  It gave us the impression that the smalls were Lillipution and the large was normal sized.  We glanced around the theatre and didn’t see any of the yard long cocktails, so we felt our thoughts confirmed.  We ordered larges.  The curtain goes up, the theatre gets dark, and the show begins.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cocktail waitress emerge from the side door holding a try loaded with drinks.  Amidst the adult beverages were two 20 oz mugs with little flashing LED lights in the base.  I prayed to anyone who would listen they were not for us.  They were for us.  Now, we look like the two conductors of the Parade of Lights at Disney Land.  NO ONE else in the theatre had these.  I frantically searched for the button that turned off the lights.  I couldn’t find it.  We were stuck through a 2-hour show with flashing cocktails.  Awesome.  I held mine between my legs to try and stifle the light.  I bent over to take sips so as not to attract attention.  Reflection after the show suggested that bending over every so often probably made me look like I was blowing myself.  Very indiscrete.  We emerge from the show, and my Uncle who was sitting RIGHT NEXT TO ME says “They button is right in the base, I turned mine off right when I got it.”  Good timely information, thanks.  Las fuckin’ Vegas…

3)       Airport poops are exhilarating.  I spent a great deal of my childhood traveling on planes for various reasons.  I cannot recall a single airport dump amongst any of my travels.  In any case, if you have the opportunity to dook up an airport bathroom I suggest you take it.  Lock the door, sit down, and let the symphony begin!  See, people are traveling from all over.  Some on long flights, some on short flights (you’re welcome for the lesson in what airport is).  Often times, people have to hold a serious shit in for the final 30 minutes of a flight during the final descent.  This is a harrowing experience.  When you finally emerge from the plane, you make a rapid beeline for the john.  You are so relieved the wait is over, you throw discretion to the wind and let fly with all sorts of sounds.  It sounds like nature sounds from a jungle full of rectums.  It is glorious.  As a result, you too can throw prudence to the wind and have a go.  Being in a public place but shitting like you are at home is a great thrill.  I was so pleased with the experience I texted my buddy.  “I hope TSA isn’t around, ‘cause I’m bombing the bathroom.”  Then I got scared that somehow, that text would be intercepted by TSA and they would storm in the bathroom and forcibly remove me from the toilet with my pants down and take me in for questioning and a cavity search.  My imagination is active…

4)      The flight to Vegas is far more boisterous than the return flight.  Especially if you fly back at 9am on Sunday morning.  The Thursday flight is a raucous group of pre-gaming revelers hooting and hollering about how Vegas isn’t ready for them, and wondering where they will buy some drugs, etc.  On my flight in there was a 21^st b-day party heading down to defile themselves and make bad decisions.  I first ran into them at an airport bar, where I was having breakfast, and watching the news.  They were ordering shots of Jameson, vodka Red Bulls, and kamikazes.  It was 8:30 am.  I bought the b-day boy a shot of whiskey, which he downed immediately after his first shot of tequila.  I high fived him, and went on my merry way.  The shot was an investment for my own entertainment.  As I anticipated, by the time the flight was boarding, B-Day boy was a wreck.  Glassy-eyed and friendly to a fault, he was talking to anybody who would listen about how it was his birthday.  He had a hat on that said Happy Birthday.  When we got on the plane, he cajoled the flight attendant into letting him deliver the peanuts which was a circus of dropped bags of nuts stumbling, and awkward stares if you declined.  If you accepted the bags, he gave you a handful of like 5 bags.  He was awesome.  By the time the flight landed, he was passed out.  The return flight was packed to the gills and full of sweatpants, sunglasses, messy hair, and smeared makeup.  Incidentally, I had to release the hounds before that flight, too (2 airport poops in 1 weekend!  What a treat!)  This one was less enjoyable because mixed in with the toilet bowl symphony were the sounds of wretching and coughing, and that is not pleasant.  The flight looked like it was full of extras from Dawn of the Dead, and everyone ordered water.  Lots of water.  I could hear a few people in the back actually using the barf bags (I would too, I would be afraid of hitting the flush button in the crapper and getting sucked head first into the blue water abyss) and there were murmurs of “I’m never drinking again.”  Alcohol is the one place I showed restraint – I wanted my calories through ungodly amounts of food, remember?  Therefore, I was good.

5)      Working out on vacation is impossible.  I packed some workout clothes and figured I would at least get a run or two in.  Whom the fuck was I kidding?  I had a limited time in that town, and running was going to cut into my eating time, goddammit.  I woke up with the intention of running on Saturday.  I even got my workout clothes on.  I ate an apple crumb muffin instead.  If you plan to do it and then don’t, you feel like a dickbag because you lied to yourself.  To quote Vince Vaughn in Dodgeball: “I found that if you have a goal, that you might not reach it.  But, if you don’t have one, then you are never disappointed.  And I gotta tell ya’…it feels phenomenal.”

Phase 3 begins this week.  The end is near.  Word to the mother.  

 

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!                          

Corndogs, Nachos, Bud LIght, and Other Various American Delicacies....

            This weekend marked the 1^st fair of the year in the great state of California, the Cloverdale Citrus Fair.  I have been hearing of its awesomness for a few years now, so the family and I made the trip up this past Saturday to behold it with our own eyes with some close friends of ours who go every year.

            Folks, let me tell you: it did not fail to disappoint.  The Cloverdale Citrus Fair is roughly 10,000 square feet (which is only slightly larger than your average Safeway) of carnie rides, food stands, various locals hawking their handmade trinkets, and tens of locals with a good reason for some afternoon drinkin’. 

            The theme of this year’s fair was Rock N’ Roll, and judging by the TWO homemade citrus fruit displays depicting a large guitar, and a pick-up truck – the theme really snared the interest of Cloverdaliens everywhere.  After walking through the auditorium/grange hall/local Baptist church at the entrance, you make your way through the Citrus Fair bazaar.  The bazaar is about 4 booths selling homemade pet treats, handmade jewelry, knock off Tupperware (my wife registered for the drawing to win 500 bucks worth….solid), and various baked goods.  Judging by the people selling the baked goods, I am fairly certain they were “edibles.”  This space is roughly 1500 square feet, and there were about 1000 people inside which made negotiating the area with my son in his stroller a bit of a challenge.  I suppose he had to learn how to handle Bud Light being spilled on him by a stranger at some point. 

It became clear the Cloverdaliens had their priorities in order when, upon emerging from the Bazaar, you find yourself smack dab in front of the booth boasting two tap handles dispensing nothing but Anheiser Busch’s finest light American lager. 

Of course, I had one. 

            It is important to note, this was the ONLY booth dispensing these treasures, which made it even more popular than the bazaar.  In the small courtyard next to the beer booth, was a gaggle of young couples with small (and some not so small – I swear one kid was 7) stroller-bound children.  Our friends pointed out to us that this group is the same group that found themselves partying like Charlie Sheen at the fair in years past.  This definitely explained the forlorn looks on their faces as they gazed down upon their broods of failure and chugged beer as if they weren’t there.  I wondered aloud how many of those kids were conceived at the fair, as they seemed to be grouped in ages of three months; 15 months, 22 months, etc…do the math.

            We did no rides. I don’t do rides.  I had a bad experience, just without the chaw:

           

Besides, something about the carnies and their toothless leering faces make me nervous.  I refuse to plummet to my death at the hands of a professional meth addict. 

This brings me to the food at the event: here is all you need to know.  There was a booth that sold pizza, fries, and nachos.  And there was a booth that sold fries, corndogs, funnel cakes, deep fried oreos…in fact now that I think about it – there was a certified cardiologist on hand at all times at this booth.  It was glorious.  Since I partook in 2 plastic pints of suds on this day, I steered clear of a plate of fair faire. 

Fucking responsibility….I am GAY for corndogs. 

My wife, however ordered a plate of nachos, which came with tepid cheese, pickled jalapenos (we watched her take them out of the Costco jar), and sour cream from a squeeze bottle!  It was magnificent in its entire poorly executed splendor.  My wife loved it (at the time – the plumbing had a little trouble with it later) and my son even enjoyed his first taste of nacho cheese.  Even at 10 months old, he loved it.  We only gave him a teaspoon of the stuff, but he still managed to rub it all over his face like Oil of Olay.

I was envious.  So, so envious….

There were a half dozen game booths of standard variety – ring toss for fish with 35 minutes to live, basketball shots with rims smaller than the balls, baseball throw at lead bottles cemented to the table, and finally the game where you shoot the red star of Russia out of a card with an fully automatic pellet gun.  The most important thing to note about the games is the prizes.  Every fair I’ve ever been to have games that boast huge stuffed animals that dads win for their kids.  The kids don’t want to carry them so the dad has to walk around with it like a douchebag in the sweltering heat.  Not the Citrus Fair, ho no – this fair had a top shelf full of Nascar Jackets.  Nothing but Nascar Jackets.  ‘Nary a Jeff Gordon to be found either.  I commented on that and the music stopped, the rides screeched to a halt, and somewhere by the beer booth, a posse formed to find “The Picklekisser.”

It was wonderful; the whole spectacle was absolutely wonderful.  The only way I would have felt more American is if there was a John Wayne movie booth, and an octagon where a couple of guys in Affliction Tee’s (there were a lot of them) could get in without signing a waiver and beat the ever living shit out of each other.  Maybe next year?  We’ll be back!

I’m getting good at my Tony Horton Screen Shots!  Check out these doozies:

I like to call this one: “So then I took his head, and placed it on my pelvic area.  Y’know, as a hint…”

       

I like to call this one: “Dude, you don’t touch the beautiful genius, I touch you.  Eww.”

Last week was the beginning of phase two, which means there are two new workouts.  Monday is now back, shoulders, and triceps.  Wednesday is now back and biceps.  I don’t mind Wednesday, although I can’t help but shake the idea that it is a day for vanity, and that one-day I will end up so enthralled with my own impressive biceps that I will end up like this guy:

Probably not, because I work out with the bands.  And the bands are for shut-ins and weaklings. 

I do hate Monday though, and I hate Monday for one reason and one reason alone.  The pike push up.  This is a pushup where you get in a position similar to a woman in congress of a cow, and then do a pushup (so it is much like Congress of a Cow – since you get FUCKED!).  It sucks the butthole.  All the blood rushes to your head, and then snot drips out of your nose, and on the last one: you struggle to keep from peeing yourself.  This is particularly dangerous; because as everyone knows, pee flows toward the lowest point.  The lowest point here happens to be YOUR FACE!  Boy, if Horton can’t actually piss on you, he has figured out a way for you to get pissed on.  You gotta admire his diabolical tenacity.

            The best thing about phase two, is that plyometrics is still on Tuesdays. 

Did I say best?  I meant worst.  I hate Plyomtrics, I hate plyometrics more than Brett Favre, Pete Carroll, Manny Ramirez, and the Entire Los Angeles Dodgers organization combined.  Fuck them all, fuck them long…fuck them hard.  Onto the 5 things!

5 Things I Learned This Week!

1)      Quality Chinese food will be the death of me.  My father-in-law works next to this Chinese restaurant that churns out the best Chinese food I’ve ever eaten.  It’s become a little tradition to get carry out from there on Fridays.  Clearly, Friday’s have become the cheat day of the week.  The best thing is pops-in-law has developed a friendship with the chef/owner.  This means we don’t get the round-eye menu.  We get the traditional Chinese menu, which is far more delicious than your traditional orange chickens, and sweet and sour pork (which I’m not knocking, Daddy gets down on some sweet and sour pork).  We get some special soup with mushrooms, rice noodles, and shrimp which rocks the shit.  There is the Mandarin Calamari, homemade pork shu mai, some traditional Fried Rice, house made kim-chi (which I know is Korean, but I don’t care.  I would put that shit in my oatmeal), I could go on for days here.  So let me sum up.  This food is THE TITS!  I always just assume “I’ll be hungry in an hour!”  which means this food must be good for me. I stuff my plate to the brim, eat until I pass out, and then wake up and shit a jade dragon from the Ming Dynasty.  Saturday is a day of vegetables, and nothing but vegetables. 

2)      I can finally do pull ups without a chair.  By pull-ups I mean 1 ½.  1 ½ is more than 1; therefore, grammatically it requires a plural form of the noun.  Ipso facto, I can do pull-upS without a chair.

3)      The best time to weigh yourself is first thing in the morning.  I like to do it before I drain the sea-monster, and then again after.  Sometimes it’s as much as one whole pound!  The other best time to weigh yourself is immediately before and after dropping a deuce.  Sometimes the amount of weight lost there is ungodly.  My record so far is 3 lbs.  It’s like playing Keeno.  I guess the number, and then hope it shows up on the screen of the digital scale.  I WIN!

4)      My son can do pull-ups.  I hold him up to the bar, he likes to grab it, and pull himself up.  Of course I have a firm grip on him (I’m not Michael Jackson, and he’s not Blanket) but he pulls himself up.  He’s 10 months old and already asserting his dominance over his muffin-topped father.

5)      I learned that I have lost another pound this week, which puts me at 206.  Only 26 more pounds to go.  I think I may have to incorporate more cardio into the regimen, since Phase 2 of this Devil’s Hoe Down seems to want to incorporate more size.  So, I’ll be looking into getting back in the pool.  I used to swim competitively in school, and it’s probably getting to be time to pick that back up.  I’ve just been worried about my added buoyancy.  Immediately the song Baby Baluga comes to mind… 

Enjoy the short work week everyone!