Fat Guy BJJ Blog

The slightly sarcastic, nominally entertaining Brazilian Jiu Jitsu adventures of a 30-something Dad


Fat Guy Haiku


white-beltEverybody has been talking about “Black Lives Matter” and “Blue Lives Matter” and what not, so I thought I’d piggy back on that trend and let you in on a little secret, gentle BJJ practioner:

White Belt lives matter, too.

The Jiu Jitsu experience can’t be all nut sacks and heavy breathing.  We need some small victories as well, you know, to keep us going.

I hereby declare April 25th to be “Allow a White Belt to Pass Your Guard Day,” and you fuckers need to make it look authentic.  Nobody wants a pity pass.  Well, we do want a pity pass, but we want you to pretend like we earned it.  Bastards.

And don’t be that shitbag that immediately reverses the position just because you can.  With your shrimping and other superfluous bullshit….  Fat Guys need to rest for at least 15-20 seconds after passing the guard, so just lay there and take it.  For the future.

And now, a Fat Guy BJJ Haiku:friends

I passed your guard once…

I wonder if it was real?

Fuck it.  Let’s eat.  Oss.



A Fishy Metaphor and Other Nonsense

The following is a metaphor:


The fish is me, charging forward in an attempt to pass my master’s guard.  Or anybody above the rank of blue belt, really.  The boat is a loop choke.  Metaphor complete.

In other news, I’m opening our team to new recruits.  I haven’t spoken to my professor about it yet, or to the team, but I’m going to need to have a few people around that I can beat.  Please, only new white belts with no previous wrestling experience.  Athletic types need not apply.  In fact, if you’ve got an IQ lower than 110 you’re the perfect candidate. 

And finally, I’m now accepting donations for one of those clock beepy timer things that most gyms have.  You know, so you know when to switch partners.  The only thing worse than getting your ass kicked for a half hour is getting your ass kicked by the same person for a half hour with no breaks.  Yeah, fuckers.  That shit is not fat guy approved.  But I digress.  Happy Thursday.  And now, a Fat Guy Jiu Jitsu Haiku:

You smash me again

Biz-alls upon my forehead.

Vortex of ass funk.

On Judo, “Different Body Types,” And Other Nonsense

“Hey, I’d like to attempt this throw on some other body types,” says the skinny dude, twinkle in his gleaming eye. What he really means is, “I’d like to hear the sound the floor makes when I bounce chubbikins on his head with this judo move that I’m an expert at.”  So, I get thrown.  It’s like a right of passage.  Oh, you did it fine on me, but if you can do it on the fat dude you know your technique is good.  Either that, or it’s like learning to use your art in the worst possible case scenario.  Like, say, a Neanderthal springs from the bushes and outweighs you by 250 lbs.  Or, if you absolutely have to fight a grizzly bear. Yeah, better be ready for that.

And, while I’m at it….what the fuck is Judo?  It looks like the fucking riverdance combined with a two step.  Is it any wonder people fall down?  I’ve got a great idea.  Let’s find as many things as we can that fat people are bad at and roll them into one sport.  Timing.  Check.  Balance.  Check.  The precision of a fucking ballerina.  Check.  Yep, I’m bad at all those.  Sweet, let’s call it fucking Judo.

Here’s a judo haiku for you:

I’m twirling in air;
gravity seems to hate me.
I just got judoed.

Fat Guy Jiu Jitsu Lineage, and Other Myths

I keep seeing posts of Facebook asking “What’s your lineage?”  I just can’t take the question seriously with my complete lack of ability in the art.  Saying I’m descendant from Helio Gracie in any way, shape, or form is like saying my cat is descendant from a lion.  It might be technically true in some way, but something gets lost in translation.  The metaphor holds, because I mostly like to lay around on the couch and eat canned food fed to me on a paper plate by my wife, much like my cat.  Also, I would lick my balls if I could.

Anyhoo, I digress.  My private lessons are coming along great, which means I’ve almost mastered the second stripe curriculum at the white belt level, which apparently doesn’t mean shit judging by the frequency with which the other white belts continue to kick my ass.  Sandbagging motherfuckers. Wear a gi.  Go to class.  If you’ve been training for five years and you’re a no-stripe white belt, I’m talking to you.

In honor of these gentle few, a Fat Guy Haiku:

Go to class you fuck.

You’re making me look like shit,

With your no-stripe belt.

Low Percentage Life and Fat Guy Haiku

Side control is a lovely position in which your new friend with the stinky gi lays atop you and uses his shoulder to press into your chest so you can’t flipping breathe.  It’s so much fun that the first thing you learn in Jiu Jitsu, after escaping mount (same basic idea, except they press down on your chest with their bizalls), is escaping side control.  You learn it, and learn it, and learn it.  Then you “roll.”

Rolling, as I’ve said before, is an exercise in failure.  Everything you’ve just learned, which works perfectly well when you are practicing, now fails.  Mostly it’s because the white belt has to process what he’s doing and the more experienced guy just does it.

White belt’s internal dialog (while trying to escape): “Step 1….bridge against their neck.  Step 2….block the cross face……Step 3…..what the fuck was step 3?……ah yes, Shrimp.  Fuck.  Why didn’t that work?”

Blue belt’s internal dialog (while circumventing escape attempts and smothering the life out of the white belt):  “It’s such a lovely day out.  That pita bread I had for lunch was really delicious.  I should write a poem while doing long division and choking this white belt simultaneously.”

Yeah, something like that.

Speaking of poems, here’s some Fat Guy Jiu Jitsu Haiku for you:

You think you won but,

Secretly I farted twice,

With you in my guard….


Day 15: The Hall of Mirrors

So, I haven’t been to the gym in 6 days, but not because I’ve fallen off the wagon.  I went away to Miami for a training class in Modular Blade Technique (Knife Fighting).  While I was there, I managed to not gain any weight (which is a small miracle considering the availability of yummy, high calorie food in Miami), but neither did I lose any weight.  In fact, I weight exactly the same, to the ounce, as I did when I left.  Basically, I ate like crap, but the course kept me moving enough to burn off the calories, so I have neutral weight loss.  I burned all of the calories that I ate, but nothing more.

You know what else Miami has besides yummy food?  Mirrors.  Lots and lots of mirrors.  Every restaurant has a mirror.  Every bathroom has multiple mirrors.  Every window to every shop is tinted in such as way that it looks like a mirror.  The dojo where our training course was held was a hall of mirrors.  As it turns out, the really fit martial arts guys with loads of sinewy muscles popping out through their little martial arts costumes love mirrors.  Me, not so much.  There’s nothing like being reminded that you’re a fat tubba lard no matter what direction you turn.  It was so irritating that I almost decided to sneak back in during lunch and vandalize them.  Then I’d be all like, “Damn.  What happened to those mirrors?  What a shame!”  Score one for the fat guy.  In the end I just picked a body part that doesn’t look fat to focus on.  Like “Hey, I have some great looking ears,” or “Wow, my legs are much less fat than everything else.”  You know.

Oh, one other thing I picked up in Miami: an upper respiratory infection.  I am really congested and can barely breathe, so going to the gym would really suck right now.  That means, of course, that I have to eat much much less if I want to lose any weight this week.  Alas, I’ve given up my Chic-Fil-A breakfast.  It’s a sad, sad day America.  Funeral services for the Chic-Fil-A biscuit will be held on Sunday. In the mean time, here is some Chic-Fil-A Haiku:

Ode to Chic-Fil-A

Your poultry goodness is lost

my taste buds mourn you

Day…Whatever: Excuses, Excuses

I haven’t been to they gym in nearly a week, which invariably means that I’ve gained back twice as much weight as I lost.  Skinny people must die! I was sick with some respiratory-stomach-headache nonsense which disables my breathing….seriously, I almost suffocated in my own phlem while trying to get dressed for work Saturday, and now I’m on a business trip to hotels-without-a-fitness-center land.

To make matters worse, I just consumed a sausage biscuit, three hash browns, and a large sweet tea from McDonalds.  See, the power of confession at work.  I’ve lost motivation and gained weight.  It’s the story of my life.  Now, for some more fat guy haiku:

Thin guy, emerge!

You lie dormant with me

“Hit the gym,” you say!

Day 7: Ode To McDonalds

701px-SausageBiscuit1I was driving by McDonalds this morning on my way to the gym, and I thought about how awesome it would be to get like fifteen sausage biscuits and make a little biscuit bed out of it and roll around for a few minutes in greasy goodness….ahem, anyway.  I decided to channel my hunger into some Fat Guy Haiku:

What Greasy Goodness

Your Fat Content Courses Through

Washed In Streams Of Grease

Today I managed to finish about 45 minutes of cardio without vomiting.  It’s the little things that keep me going folks.  I started this little experiment at 317 lbs, and I weighed in this morning at 312.  Hopefully I’ll keep it moving in the right direction so long as I can avoid succumbing to the top secret fat people mind rays emanating from McDonalds.  You thought you had everybody fooled, didn’t you Ronald McDonald!?  Oh no….I’ve got my eye on you!

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