A Glorification of Front Butts

This is not a Valentine’s Day post.  I hate Valentine’s Day.  Chocolate, roses, diamonds, overcrowded restaurants, and forced romance…what’s to love?  The only things I know about Valentine’s Day is that those boxes of assorted chocolate suck. 

 “I think this one is filled with Liquid Plumber…”

"Oooh, mine has mayo in it!"

Also, stuffing your face with chocolates and then trying to fend off the hyperglycemic coma as you bungle your way through an attempt at sexin’ your lady always ends up awkward.  Then you pass out with chocolatey fingers, and you wake up panicked that one of you shit the bed.  No thanks.  My wife already knows I love her, and I know she loves me.  I asked her to inspect my butt crack.  She did.  ‘Nuff Said.

           

Some of you will relate to exactly what I am talking about here.  If you don’t, bear with me.

            When I was a gangly acne ridden teenager, I actually had a little bit of athleticism.  Like all teenage boys, I liked to test the limits of that athleticism in the interest of showing off….most of the time for no one.  Any time I walked by a relatively low overhang, (8-10 feet) I would jump up and touch it.  Signs, awnings, storefronts, high doorways…it didn’t matter.  I was going to violate it with as much of my hand as possible.  Every boy who’s into sports does this; it starts around the age of 12.  I suppose the rationale is that at some point, some scout for an NBA or NFL team is going to be walking past you on the street take notice of your impressive vertical leap, and invite you back to team headquarters.  Boys are fanatical about this, it’s crazy.  At the prep school I went to, guys would attempt to jump up and touch the entrance to a building with a backpack filled with 490 lbs of books in it.  More than once, those guys ended up on their asses, and when that happened you felt better, because you knew if the scout saw that guy, he would never get asked to THQ.  BETTER CHANCES FOR MEEEE!!!!

            The only exception to this rule is soccer players.  They try and kick any and all projectiles.

“Hey dude, toss me a soda?”

Soccer friend intercepts tossed soda with top side of foot, kicks it away.

“Fuck, dude!”

“Hey, anytime the ball goes up in the air, it’s a chance for greatness.”

“That was a fucking soda!”

“Whatever. Chance for greatness…”

“What? That doesn’t even make se….”

Now in my face: “CHANCE FOR GREATNESS!!!!

            Fucking Soccer players, I digress.  This desire to prove my athleticism/manhood has re-manifested itself.  As I’ve mentioned before – we installed a pull-up bar in the doorway of our master bedroom.  Despite my initial concerns, it has managed to hold together.  In any case, it’s kind of a pain in the ass to take down and put up, our son isn’t yet at an age (although it is coming) where closing the door is necessary so we leave the torture device up there.  Every time I pass through that doorway, I can hear it mocking me like the evil furnace from Home Alone.  What I’ve started to do is jump up and do at least 1 chin-up every time I pass through.  At this point, I’m doing 2 or 3 without a chair so I guess it has helped.  Actual pull-ups are a little different story. 

            I walk up, grab the wide grip handles, begin to hang, pull up about 3 inches,

“PHOOO, Not today, big dog, not today…”

           

 Every time. I’ll get there.

            Thanks for all the support from the readers who were concerned with the health of my ass crack.  It is much appreciated.  I could feel all of the positive thoughts pouring into my butt, and I believe it helped.  You will be happy to know the cyst has disappeared, and I after 12 days I have returned to my normal self.  Thank you to Nick Catelli who suggested I join the NBA because of all my “asscysts.”  Clever.

            I have not been able to do a workout in 9 days, as every time I exerted myself for a while it felt I was going to shart my spinal cord.  Therefore, the last 2 weeks have been a particular;y intense focus on the diet.  It’s a lot of grain breads, lean proteins, and TONS of vegetables.  I am starting to realize I am winning the struggle now.  We went out to eat a few times last week, and I budgeted appropriately for the meal that night.  In the past, I would fill myself up for lunch, and then it was a race to drop a deuce before dinner.  If I dumped too early, that was no good.  I would just snack until I was full again.  If I lost that race, it didn’t matter.  I would stuff my jiggly maw with something that was 40% lean and deep fried in lard and Everclear.  Then I would spend the evening complaining to my wife that my stomach was upset, and it must have been something I ate. 

“Actually, it was EVERYTHING you ate.”

“DON’T JUDGE ME WOMAN!”

“Why are you yelling?”

“BECAUSE…because I am upset.  I’m going to have a piece of cake.”

            When we went out last week, it was a far more calculated day.  If I knew we were going out to eat, I would lay off the sandwich, and eat a big bowl of salad, or vegetables.  It worked out nicely, especially considering I go crazy for chips and quacamole.  I mean, I shovel that shit in like I’m shoveling coal into a locomotive that needs more speed.  If I ate too much for lunch or in the afternoon my chip intake would be compromised.  You know what I say about that?

Fuck that.

I planned accordingly.

Since I have to watch the number of tortilla chips I can have now, I try to get as much quacamole on each chip as possible.  This is bad for two reasons:

1)      I get more guacamole than my wife does, and this displeases her greatly.  Especially because I probably ate it all while she was doing something worthwhile like situating our son at the table with snacks so she and I can enjoy a nice meal together while I son happily stuffs his face like Dada.

2)      Overloading a chip really strains the structural integrity of the chip.  We eat at a place that makes their own tortilla chips.  DELICIOUS!  But, sometimes the chips are a bit undercooked.  An overloaded, undercooked chip will bend but not break and make you look like a mental patient while you tilt your head and try and eat it before the guacamole slides off.  Even worse – the chip bends mid-dip.  This blows the donkey.  You may as well have given me a tortilla, Jose!  Sometimes they OVERcook the chip.  An overcooked chip is delicious.  It’s the same principle as the well-done fries at In-n-Out – crispy, salty goodness fried at a nuclear temperature until all nutritional value has been extracted.  *food-boner*  However, an overcooked chip is brittle.  Overloading that chip will snap it like Thiesmann’s leg, and guacamole falls onto the top of your belly.  OR – the chip breaks mid dip, and all you are left with in your hand is a small piece of the chip unfit for dipping, and a chip hidden balls-deep in guacamole that should be in your mouth.  Do you dig through and find it?  Your wife WILL clown you.  Do you leave it be?  Then I know it’s there, and I go crazy thinking my wife will find it before me.  There is NOTHING better than dipping a chip and coming up with a shit ton of guacamole AND ANOTHER FUCKING CHIP!!!  I must have it! 

It’s very stressful.  I should just moderate how much guacamole I load up, right? 

WRONG!

I just pick through the chips and find the perfect dippers.  I feel like I’m handpicking my own elite Army Ranger Squad whose sole mission is to act as a vehicle for my gluttony.  I’m sure it looks like I have O.C.D. but who cares?  I HAVE PERFECT CHIPS! 

This also helps maintain marital harmony, as I am wrapping up my chip recruiting, she is finishing settling in my son (She always takes on this duty, my son just throws food back at me), so all the guacamole is still there.  I WIN!    

Since no workouts – the weight loss has slowed, although there is still progress.  I began this process at 225 lbs. I am now 207.  I was 209 before the cyst put a halt to my hate-fuck sessions with Tony Horton.  I think the two pounds I have lost since oozed out of my buttcrack, but weight lost is weight lost.  I am going to pick back up today, and I will probably throw up another post on Thursday.  The majority of days I missed were the recovery week for Phase 1 (2 days of yoga, 1 day of stretching, etc) so I will just forgo that week, and pick up where I should be.  Obviously, I can’t wait.  I was getting tired of lifting a paper towel without my body hurting, anyway. 

5 Things I Learned this Week

1)      The remainder of a spilled glob of guacamole on the top or your belly sucks.  My body has started to change, and my belly is a little less noticeable.  Nevertheless, when a spilled substance sits right on top of your belly, it reverts you back into a fat slob.  It’s like one of those 3D art posters from the 90’s.  The longer you stared at it, it turned into something, like a pirate ship, or a flower, etc.  The tummy-stain has the same effect.  At first glance I just look like an unremarkable guy with no redeeming or memorable features.  A longer gaze reveals the guac stain and then your eyes adjust and you see me as a corpulent scallywag who shovels food into his mouth faster than his mouth can handle it. 

2)      I learned this week that my wife would be making cakes for a few special events in the upcoming weeks.  She does this as a side gig, and has done some really great cakes.  Recall from an earlier post my intense ardor for baked goods.  Remember?  Schoolchildren, buses, punch, kick, blood – me eating cookies.  This news is a big problem, because the only thing worse than having cake in the house that you cannot eat, is having fresh cakes baking in the house while you workout with Tony Horton who pops a boner every time he does a pushup.  It smells like Jesus, and you’re stuck with Satan. 

3)      Moving sucks.  My buddy and his wife are moving into their home (first time homebuyers – AMERICA – FUCK YEAH!) this week, and a few of us helped them move yesterday.  It’s exciting for them, and I actually don’t mind helping.  It’s always an opportunity for a few laughs, especially when one buddy tries to lift something that’s too heavy, and then tries to power through just to prove a point.  Then he has to put it down every 3 feet because it’s “akward” to carry.  Bullheaded testosterone never wins out.  My favorite moving moment came a few years ago, when I was helping move a buddy’s washing machine.  It was unquestionably the heaviest washing machine ever, and I was convinced it was made of lead.  We carried it downstairs, onto the truck, and then into his new laundry room.  I went to plug it in, and for some reason I felt the need to open the lid.  It was full of wet fucking clothes.  WHATTHEFUCK!!!  THIS ISN’T WORTH THE CASE OF PABST BLUE RIBBON, FUCKFACE!  The real suckiness comes in to play long after the help has gone home.  It comes in exactly at the moment you head back to your old rental home and realize: “Fuck, we still have to clean this place.”  That blows, all you want to do is settle in to the new place, and you still have to go back to the old place.  The old place has suddenly become the nastiest cesspool of filth and sadness ever, even though it was perfect for you over the last 5 years.  You have to do shit like wipe down walls, and detail grout, and spackle, and ugh.  It’s all ass.

4)      Fresh Choice is the greatest arena for people watching ever.  People will grab one scoop of iceberg lettuce, than pile on 1 lb of baco’s, spaghetti, 2 slices of pizza, and then 4 gallons of ranch on a plate, then order a Diet Coke.  It’s glorious.  Every time they go to put something unhealthy (read: delicious) on their plate, they give this equally devilish and shameful sideling glance to either side to make sure no one is looking, then go right after it.  They then sit at their table looking straight down at their self-constructed piles of self-loathing.  It is a phenomenal collection of FUPA’s, turkey necks, and cankles.  I feel right at home.  Last time we ate there, we actually saw someone who grabbed a whole pizza pie from the pizza and bread station.  I wanted to shake his hand, he must have a huge set of balls tucked underneath that dickey-do. 

5)      This one is actually something I’ve learned in life, not just this week.  Looking back at number 3: It’s ALWAYS worth the case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, fuckface.

Happy Monday, gumba’s!