Death to the Resolutions

Don’t these people know that they’re monopolizing my maniac machine?  It’s mine.  I know I only go to the gym once a month, but when I go  I use the same machine.  Always the same machine.  Third one from the left, next to the last row.  Now, since everybody has started the “This year I’m really going to get fit…” stuff, I can’t get my machine.  It’s maddening.

Since it’s January 12th, I’m hoping that many will have quit by now.  I’m seriously going to try to get back in there and make it a habit now.  If I have to drop kick  somebody off of my maniac machine I will.  You have been warned, people.

Miscellaneous Whining

I really hate the gym.  I hate eating right too.  That’s probably why I’m fat.

On another note, why is it that every time you decide to eat right and work out and lose weight, some ass has to point out how fat you are and sap your motivation?  I think there is some covert organization that operates behind the scenes and employs random douche bags to appear at a moments notice and say retarded stuff to keep me from going to the gym.  They’re all like, “Hey honey, let’s go to a movie”….and the dude is like “Sorry babe, I’m the douche bag on call tonight, and we have to keep that fat bastard from losing weight.”  Sigh.

Back on the Wagon (Again)

So I’ve decided to get back on the weight loss wagon. Call it a new year’s resolution. And, let me tell you b, the freaking wagon ain’t happy.  It’s all like “get off me you fat bastard!”

Anyway. More to follow.

Retail Madness, Missions Training, and Partner-Assisted Vomiting

So, it’s November.  You’ve been wondering why I haven’t written in five days.  Well, the answer should be obvious.  I’m a retail manager by trade, and the madness has officially begun.  I’ve been chained to the stockroom of my local big box retailer with a chain that extends almost to my car, but not quite.  I won’t be leaving until New Years day.  It started in late October when we set the Christmas display (Yes, Christmas).  It will continue to compound until the day after Thanksgiving, called Black Friday in the industry (nothing like a little souless capitalism to wash down your turkey dinner), when I will get my best exercise all month.  It’ll probably consist of chasing shoplifters who are trying to get out the door with one of my Plasma Screen TVs (On sale for a limited time).  Nothing a little row boat wedgie in the parking l0t won’t fix.  I figure I have to make examples of somebody.  Anyway.

Missions training is going awesome.  I practiced walking seven miles while balancing a water pot on my head yesterday.  It went well, except for the headache.  My limp also caused me to slosh water down the back of my pants, but I guess that’s to be expected.  I even managed to recite scripture while avoiding moving vehicles.  I walked down the wrong side of the road towards oncoming traffic because that’s how they roll in Africa. 

My eating habits have been slipping, so I begged my lovely wife to kick me in the abdomen until I vomited.  It was great fun, but I’ve found that you have to carry a pack of gum in your pocket to deal with the funk breath.  Seriously, eating disorders are bad, m’kay?  This morning, at six am, while staring at a large pallet of toys that needed to be stocked, I actually thought about how nice it might be to get on the maniac machine of death and enjoy some elliptical madness.  How messed up is that?

Day 30: Missions Training

So, I have decided that I will be travelling to Kenya and Uganda with my Pastor later this year for a missions trip.  Since the area where we will be ministering is austere and mountainous, and since it would detract from the Gospel if I had to make the natives carry me up the hill, I have decided to undertake a missions fitness challenge.

I started day one of the missions fitness challenge with a life-like training scenario.  I put on some hiking boots, a columbia shirt, and a backpack, and then I asked my lovely wife to chase me through the woods while throwing spears and shouting in swahili.  As it turns out, I wasn’t quite prepared for the challenge. 

After about fifteen steps I twisted my ankle, fell on my face, and got impaled by several spears from my loving wife (who apparently took her role a little too seriously), who subsequently beat me with a stick and challenged me to “pray now, sissy!”  It was tragic.

Tomorrow, back to the gym for some maniac machine action.  Poor horse is getting awfully tired of me jumping on again and off again.

Day 25: Mystery of the Cat Litter Mouth

I remember, back in my military days, when my training instructors would yell things like, “hydrate or die!”  I remember how much I hate drinking plain water, preferring even the powdered drink mix found in my MREs (which are shelf stable for fifteen years), which had a tendacy to taste like flavored sand, to the taste of nothingness.

Fast forward to my current situation.  I woke up this morning feeling as if somebody had dumped partially used cat litter in my mouth while I slept.  You know, that sandy, dry, stinky, pasty, nastiness when you know you aren’t properly hydrated and you’re too lazy to get up and get a glass of water before bed.   Apparently soda and sweet tea don’t do much to hydrate you.  Bummer.

So, I toddled out into the living room this morning on my partially broken ankle looking like a hobbit with hemeriods and sat on the couch.  My oldest child jumped in my lap and said, “Hey Daddy!”  Knowing I had poop breath, I replied:

“Hhhhhhey baby!”

47 minutes later when she recoverd from the funk-enduced coma that my breath put her in, I finally went back to the bathroom to brush my dookie fangs.  My toothbrush came to life, slapped me in the face, and returned to its holder.  I guess nobody really wants a suicide mission at 8 am, household implements included.

I guess that’s the lighter side of dehydration.

Day 22: Problem Solved

I’d like to send a shout out to a big, big, big fan of the Fat Guy blog: Muscle Girl (she likes me for my bod!).  In between worshiping my toned physique and laughing hysterically at my gymnasium antics, she also finds time to cure age-old mannundrums such as nipple trauma, discussed at length in my dazzlingly insightful post entitled Day 17: Man Boobs.

Muscle girl pointed out that a product exists that has the power to cure nipple trauma, or more succinctly prevent it from ever occurring in the first place.  I’m grateful for the pointer, but I’m wondering if there is any other way that I can trick Mrs. Fat Guy into rubbing lotion on my nipples.  Ahem.  Anyway, here’s an excerpt from the “Nipguards” website:

NipGuards are a patented product that have revolutionized the market for protection against painful nipple chafing and abrasion.  Used primarily by male athletes (woman typically wear bra’s and do not experience the problem), over 1 million NipGuards have been successfully used since the product was launched in 1999. Each disposable pair of NipGuards is good for one workout – typically a long distance training run or competition (of 45 minutes on the cardio machine of death).

Sounds fascinating, but at $8.95 for a 10 pack, it’s a little rich for my cholesterol-ridden blood.  Nevertheless, if this is your bag, you can order at the Nipguards Website.

I was just thinking of another wild innovation that might protect the old milk saucers while simultaneously making a fashion statement:

Nipple tassles.  Stylish.  Reusable.  Color-coordinated for your running attire.  Can somebody say “genius?”

Day 21: I Fell Off The Wagon And Landed On The Concrete

There’s nothing like a truly heinous injury to supplement your workout routine.  Long story short, I goofed up my ankle and shoulder while in Iraq long ago.  Now, for whatever reason, I randomly fall down during extremely stressful activities such as walking, squatting, or emerging from my man-mobile (Toyota Solara).  It was yesterday, after a mid-day munch session, that I suffered the most recent chapter in what has become a slightly embarrassing saga of mid-life patheticness.

I was returning to work, large sweet tea in hand, when my ankle suddenly and without warning gave out.  I plummeted to the earth like an unshapely chunk of space debris and landed squarely on my face.  I did, however, manage to keep the sweat tea in tact, lid and all (priorities, people!).  It was so ungraceful that a bystander approached me and said, “Dude, I thought you died in mid step or something.”  Apparently I’m so resigned to the repetitive nature of the injury that I no longer even attempt to catch myself when falling.  I do remember thinking in the two seconds between when my ankle gave out and my face hit the ground something to the effect of, “This will make a great blog.”  That’s just not normal.

Of course, I attempted to spring back up quickly before anybody noticed that I was rolling around like a poodle in the dryer, hoping against hope that the ankle had “reset” itself in the time it took me to recover my senses, but alas, it was not to be.  I found myself again crashing down to the earth, now looking a bit more like Bambi with a load of buckshot in his hind quarters than a thirty-something fat guy with an ankle problem.  By this time, I had become a zoo exhibit.  Mini vans full of bad children were driving slowly by throwing peanuts, and mothers could be heard exclaiming, “wow, look at the fat guy kids.”  I can already hear the dinner conversation: “Eat your veggies, or you’ll end up rolling in the parking lot at Kmart.”  It’s nice to know I impacted society today.

And, to the UNF Physical Therapy class of 2010, perhaps a group project is in order to analyze my inability to walk?

Day 17: Man Boobs

Today I wanted to look  into an emerging trend that I have been noticing in gyms all over America:  Pervasive Man Boob Syndrome, or PMBS.  PMBS is an unsitely, sometimes fatal excess growth of fatty material in the area where dudes normally store their pectorals.  It is usually associated with the unfettered consumption of Checkers burgers and sweet tea.  Left untreated, PMBS may result in public humiliation (particularly when running), embarrassing situations, and shifting of the center of man balance.

The only known treatment for PMBS is exercise, diet, and crack cocaine medication.  There are several known side effects of these treatments, including unsitely sweat rings around the man boob, green poop (from the salad, I think), and nipple trauma.

I recently experienced said nipple trauma while attempting to go 45 minutes on the cardio deck of death.  About minute number 41 I started to notice a weird tingling sensation around the area of my man boob.  I thought nothing of it at first, but by minute 43 it was a flaming circle of exercise-infused nipple torture.  I attempted to compensate for the boob gyrations taking place as a result of the maniac machine with mixed results.  The pain stopped, but the weird movement caused my center of balance to shift and I ultimately fell off of the machine and smacked my face on the mirror, leaving little snot streaks for about 8 inches.

In retrospect, I should have fashioned a man bra, or at least put bandaids over those bad boys or something.  Consider yourself warned.

Day 16: Skinny People Suck!

So, I was pumping some big, bad 25 lb dumbbells in the mirror at my local fitness establishment admiring my “swole” when I had a thought:  I wonder when my shoulders will be wider than my gut?  About that time, this skinny dude walks over, stands next to me, and goes, “Wow!  I’m getting so fat!  I look like a cow!”

No, jerky.  You look like an emaciated beaver on crack.

More importantly, if you look like a cow then I must look like a corn-fed wildebeest.  I mean, seriously.  Turn sideways so I don’t have to look at you.

Why do skinny people always pull that crap?  If he was looking for a compliment from me, he obviously picked the wrong dude.  My reply was stifling and direct, “Yeah, you should probably kill yourself.”   It was absolutely dripping with sarcasm, but the look on his face says he thought I was serious.   So, to the Bradford County Sheriffs Office, if you end up having to talk this guy down from the power line (tallest thing in Bradford County) where he stands perched for the leap of death, just bill me for your time.

Anyway, 45 minutes on the maniac machine, 15 minutes worth of running as punishment for being a fat bastard, and chest/triceps in the weight room.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.