Bonus Blog: The Good Men Project

For anyone who's interested, I have a new article up over at The Good Men Project.

It's about body image and working out and being a manly man.

How Skinny People Can Take Over the World

Noticing the type of people who seem to frequent the local Taco Bell, I'm starting to think those of us possessing speedy metabolisms should just go ahead and take control of society. Honestly, it was kind of like every person who walked into that place after me had just given up. On, like, everything.

I don't think it would be too hard. Really, we just need a little bit of a head start. I mean physically. If we try running as we go I don't think many of us would be caught. We can outrun rascal scooters, right? Seriously, it wouldn't even be hard. We might even be doing it right now and I just haven't gotten my invitation to the 3000 Calorie A Day Club. I suppose I might after today.

Here's my plan: we just keep selling unhealthy food. Not for a profit, not for status our our own health. No, we do it to make the fatties fatter. I figure eventually the incidence of heart attacks will skyrocket and anyone with glandular disorders and impulsivity issues will just be bred out of the gene pool.

Shouldn't take more than another 80 years, unless those health assholes save some chubsters along with us gorgeous, exomorphic types.

Mini Post - On Olivia Newton John

The following comes directly from Carolyn, who is taking me snowboarding today. We will have a lesson with other novice children and then fall a lot. By the end of the day, I may fall a bit less.

In the meantime, here's a verbal pun Carolyn has apparently been enjoying of late, visualized exactly as my brain originally perceived it in the moment I heard it:

Sorry I couldn't add any lasers. Maybe in my free time.

On Running II: The Runnenning

Well at least she's not fucking Kenyan.



Those of you who know me well know that I hate runners. Runners are terrible people. They think they are better than everyone else but they are not, and their smugness only makes their inevitable cardiopulmonary "event" that much more satisfying for the rest of us. I have sworn that I will never become a runner.

So yesterday I went running, guys.


Easily the worst decision I ever made. Worse than shower sexting, worse than building an entire playlist around two cross-genre covers of Miley Cyrus' "Party In the U.S.A." (actually a fantastic idea), worse than the time I tried to ollie a packet of duck sauce on the spine of a hardcover book onto my kitchen table without squishing it.

It started well enough. "It's just running for a while. I can run for a while," I thought. "I run all the time. I'll just be doing it without some other purpose. It'll be fine. I'll be great at it."

Man, I bought my first pair of basketball shorts since I was about twelve. I got powdered Gatorade mix to stick in my refillable water bottle. I found an old clip-on iPod case and my earbuds. I was going to head down to the high school track and be awesome. "I'll just run for the 30 minutes and figure out how far I went later."

Do you have any idea how awful an idea this was? Do you run? If yes, than you don't know. If you don't run, go out and try it. No, wait. Don't do that. It's a terrible idea.

It looked hopeful when I got their. Little 12 year olds on a skateboard and a couple of Razor scooters rode by me asking for high-fives. I figured I'd make their day and put some feeling into it, and for my trouble I was told that I was "cool" and asked to come talk to them and meet their wives. I believe by high-fiving them I completed some kind of "Sure, we'll marry you if you high five [x-number of] random strangers." The wives, for their part, told my my mustache was cool and looked good. (I do not need middle school skanks latching onto me. I look like enough of a pedophile as it is hanging around my old high school with a bachelor's degree and baggy shorts.)

I stretched, I loaded up my Party and Bullshit In the U.S.A. playlist and I set off.

Horrible idea. I have no idea how to run, but I guarantee you I did it wrong. Sure, I can sprint in a game. I do well. But I have no stamina. Zero. In the time it's taken my to write these last two paragraphs I could have started running, gotten tired and quit already. And running around a track is just worse. There is absolutely nothing to do but think about how lousy of an idea running is. Every single step imbues me with nothing more than the fervent desire to stop running. My only thought was of not feeling like this anymore.

So I backed off. I figured I did pretty well for a first lap. I did a whole circuit pretty fast. I past the walker mom and even the track kid already sweating his balls off. I should take walk to ease back and then start again a little slower. I took a half-lap walk, set my drink down in a shady, out of the way spot and resumed a brisker pace, intending to cycle through full-lap runs and half-lap walks. Get a nice little stagger pattern going.

I'm a fucking idiot. I kept telling myself. How can people do this? Why do people do this? This is the worst feeling ever. I want nothing more than to end this feeling immediately. So desperately. Maybe this is a wall? There's a wall these people break through and then it's good. Then you get the endorphins? Dolphins? Milhouse was the real dauphin. But he'll never be a meme … holy Christ I am about to pass out or throw up I need to get hidden in case that actually happens stop running you fucking lunatic.

So yeah, that happened. I got a whole half-lap in of my second heat before I was hit with shin splints, side cramps, chest pains, throat knives and all the good fun that comes with completely over exerting yourself without any proper prep or training. I tried to very calmly walk back to my drink, and then out the back gate of the track so that the little kids and their child brides wouldn't see my skulking away in shame and defeat. I rounded the front of the school and got cruised by some seventeen year old assholes in a busted-up El Camino who might have thought I was someone else. That or they just like idling next to shamed runners.

Moral of the story: running is a horrible, horrible thing and the only people who can actually do it are the kind of people to stupid to listen to their body saying, "Ow this fucking hurts stop it stop it now there has got to be a better way you are hurting me ow!"

For reference, I came home feeling light-headed, nauseated, and in terrible pain throughout my whole chestal region. Also my left shin for some reason. How far did I actually go? Well one lap plus two half-laps makes it a grand total of half a mile. In eight minutes. Give me a pool or a goddam bike any day of the week, brother.

Do you know what I did afterward to make myself feel better/punish the fuck out of running as a general concept? I ordered a large pizza. Half pepperoni, half cold mozzarella on top. With three pickles and a glass of milk. I ate five of them in the first hour. I'm going to eat the last three out of spite.

Running is for chumps.

On Guinea Gorilla Juiceheads

Much like her Bump-It wearing counterpart from MTV's beloved show Jersey Shore, my friend Jo has a thing for big muscly dudes.

Actually, that's a bold-faced lie.

She has a thing for death metal and trash talking scumbags over the internet, and though he's a pretty big dude now, her boyfriend only recently put on muscle because he was severely underweight. It doesn't really matter, the point to take away from this is he used to be skinny and only recently started working out.

As I invariably mention every week or so because it's a sizable chunk of my day now, I'm doing something similar for myself. I got to talking with Jo's boyfriend about weights and supplements and such, and at a point mentioned that, were I to have enough space for it, I would readily walk down to Walmart for one of their $90 adjustable weight benches. I was tired of doing bench presses from the floor.

Suddenly, this large man I was talking to became very emphatic, very twitchy. "No!" he shouted. A few months ago he had purchased this same item and had it collapse beneath him while he was lifting weights. I disheartened for myself, but relieved for his alive-ness.

Then it dawned on me. "Tay-Tay," I said. (Not his real name, but he hates Tay-Tay, so that's what I'm going with.) "How much do you weigh right now?"

"Like 220, maybe? I wanna be 270." he said.

"And how much were you benching when you were still doing that?"

"About 200?"

"Ah. Alright. Y'see, Tay-Tay, those benches usually have like a 300, 350 pound maximum on it. You're pushing like 450. If you make it to 270, I'm still only going to be half that."

Then we laughed and talked about eating things and lifting heavy things and such, but it just reminds me what my calling in life truly is:

I am to get ripped and buff, then celebrate with a spray-tan and an Ed Hardy t-shirt so I can go down to the Jersey Shore and live amongst the meatheads like Jane Goodall with the chimps.

Creatine Usage Logs

Day 1: Took single creatine pill before workout. Extra energy leads to double to triple normal routine. Felt like I should keep going but muscles stopped working briefly. (Possibly psychosomatic?) Took second pill after. Post-exercise "pump" of +1" to all measurements, lasts all night. Desperately thirsty.

Day 3: Continuing 2 pills daily. Measurements up 1.5" at all times. Energy steady. Consuming many carbs.

Day 6: Ate a loaf of bread as a snack. Hopefully does not overdoing it. +1.75 to most areas.

Day 9: +2.5" on average! Don't know why everyone isn't using creatine. Great thing.

Day 16: Working out about 2 hours daily. Have fallen behind on book. Look hot, though. Pecs are pretty good, arms are ripped, lats surprisingly bulky.

Day 23: Buying bread and pasta daily. Tapped savings for more weights and a new bench. Have nowhere to put it, but it's not like I walk through my room anyway.

Day 30: Chest and arms huge. Still wondering why no one else seems to try this.

Day 40: Can no longer see feet over pecs. Don't care. I can walk on my hands now.

Day 43: Attempted to masturbate. Could not locate testicles. Appear to have shrunken and ascended. Looking at this as a natural form of birth control? Best to stay positive.

Day 56: Working out most of waking day. Almost beach ready. Can just about fit into Ed Hardy shirts. Have become incapable of rolling over in sleep.

Day 65: Hard to sleep on back, but keep doing push-ups if sleep on stomach. Learning to adapt.

Day 73: Aggression is not out of control. I don't know what my friends are talking about. I killed plenty of hookers before I started taking creatine, didn't I?

Day 74: Killed TWO hookers today. Thinking maybe my friends have a point. Must think about it. Going to go out and find another hooker.

Day 86: Was approached to go on a date with Snookie for an episode of Jersey Shore. Figure I can get a free trip to the beach and maybe score some tail on the boardwalk.

Day 87: … Fucked Snookie. Ashamed. On camera. The Situation watched. I think he finished in her Bump-It.

Day 88: Flown back from Jersey overnight. Fractured Snookie's spine attempting to do lunges at inappropriate moment. MTV might be offering me spin-off.

Day 102: Chest is five feet around. Arms at 22 inches each. Furious they will not achieve two-foot status. Furiously curling. Up to 15 pills a day. MTV will not return my calls. Town is out of hookers.

Day 137: HULK SMAAAAAAASH!!!

Day ???: Woke up skinny again in puddle of green sweat wearing only ill-fitting, purple denim shorts. Appear to be in some large crater. Downed military craft all around me. Liv Tyler is saying something annoying. Am considering the benefits of wheat grass juice.

On Hot Chicks

My friends have raised an interesting question:

Where the hell do hot chicks go in the winter? Do they just disappear? And how is it that as soon as the weather turns even remotely nice they instantly appear in their booty shorts? Is it magic? Are they familiars to a secret cabal of wizards?

But they're right. When the weather turns cold, attractive girls just seam to fade into their parkas. Guys subside on t-shirts and the occasional polo all year long, so by the time Spring rolls around and we're thinking about breaking out a baseball because–face it–we haven't seen anything else worth our attentions for six months, BAM! That's when the sluts appear.

And no, they're not exactly sluts. Not all of them, at least. It's just after such a dearth of toned shoulders and bare skin we're suddenly inundated with it as every woman even halfway attractive immediately jumps at the first chance to show off what she's priming for beach season.

Still, we know some of these women. Someone knows them, at least. They don't transform into disfigured monsters like Dr. Jekyll that first chilly week in October. They have to go somewhere.

So this is my theory:

Hot chicks are like bears.

Yes, you can make a kind of "they're cool to look at but stand next to one and you'll just yammer and stammer and wet yourself in terror and then run away" analogy. Or, sure, you could equate her BFFs to a she-bear's little cubs and realize that to in any way get near them will result in Momma Bear going completely feral and mauling you into a bloody stump what was once a man.

But here's the real truth: attractive women hibernate. Every fall the gorgeous girl you mooned over all Summer returns to school or work or wherever it is she spends the part of her life that isn't a vacation and she prepares for the Winter months.

If she is in college she puts on what is called the "Freshman Fifteen," approximately seven kilos of pure Hot Pocket and wraps herself in a warm bed, surrounding herself with blankets, snacks, multiple seasons of "progressive" women's television shows on DVD and possibly an ill-conceived Walmart beta fish which will die within six weeks. The few times that she does wander out of her nest in the Winter, it will be grudgingly, angrily, and hungrily, lashing out at those around her and fighting willingly for even the meagerest scrap of high-protein sustenance.

Towards the tail-end of Winter, Hot Girl will begin to stir in her hovel, the last episodes of her Grey's Anatomy boxed set drawing to a close without that one perfect kiss between McDreamy and that chisel-faced blond twig the show is named for. She will slowly start to spend more time outside of her cave and interacting with other creatures, even taking physical care of herself again. She will refuse to be seen looking like a looser in over-sized hoodies and track pants, unshowered and unkempt. Eventually–and usually secretly–she will begin the arduous process of "getting ready for the beach," which is actually a bizarre ritual comprising poorly-executed remedial components of yoga, aerobics, cardio and awkward giggling, followed by a massive calorie burn through all the complaining she'll do about not being able to eat [X] anymore.

However all of this is worth it, as come the first sunny day of Spring, Hot Chick will shed her outer layers of gosling-down pillow puff and slogan-ized ass sweat pants for a pink tank top and a pair of slogan-ized ass short shorts. Who wears short shorts? Sluts wear short shorts. But that's fine. Hot Chick is not actually a slut.

What she is doing is called "peacocking," or "presenting." She is showing off absolutely all the goods at once, putting the milk up on the auction block to see who is interested in actually buying the cow. She only looks like a slut because she wants your attention like a slut.

Mostly, she is actually very selective in whom she will go back to another cave with (hers is still in disarray), though the first few prospective mates each season will more readily be able to tap into her absolutely disgusting, filthy bed-lust through sheer virtue of not being the eightieth suitor to approach her that week.

Prairiedogging like Punxsutawney Phil from their burrows of sloth and unattractiveness, Hot Chicks reemerge each Spring to flaunt and taunt men with their hotness, gaining some sick, twisted joy that will alleviate the many months of feeling like a fat, gross cow sitting alone in her room and wondering why she doesn't have anyone to treat her like McDreamy would or her father never did and mommy said she'd never find.

Either that or they all migrate South or something.

Like geese.

On Misleading Advertising

Does it bother anyone else that weight loss programs always seem to come with a side effect of giving all the "before" models a pronounced tan?

I feel like that's cancer.

I was going to use this photo, but frankly this girl is horribly Photoshopped and like half plastic to begin with.

In the Spirit of Jack Handy II

I'm sick so I'm not even going to try to think up something new and witty. Here's some thoughts from my Twitter that didn't quite pan out into full blogs:

• Getting in shape and getting fat are exactly the same in that after a while you start to find parts of your body that weren't there before.
  
  
• I want a "LIVELONG" bracelet. It's only for healthy people with no threatening illnesses who won't likely die soon. Also it's for Vulcans.
  
  
• Outside college, pajama or "loungewear" bottoms are not an acceptable replacement for real pants. Neither are they a proper substitute for underwear.
  
  
• I saw an internet video of a dog in zero-gravity and asked myself aloud, laughing, "Why would you DO that?!" Accidentally described whole internet.
  
  
• Brendan Fraser, I know I say this every time you come out with a new movie, but Brendan Fraser, please stop making movies.
  
  
• I'd be more inclined to use marijuana if you could just chew the damned stuff. And if it tasted like a brownie. Or was a brownie. You know what, forget the weed and just get me a brownie.
  
  
• I went to the mall looking to get new glasses, but the selection sucked, so I wandered the mall and found a $20 bill on the ground in the middle of the floor. Then I watched an MTV T.V. pilot for the Nielsen company and got $15. Basically, I think God wants me to be unemployed.

On Running

A friend of mine told me today that I should go running.

I've mentioned my health kick, so this wasn't entirely unexpected, but surprisingly I was just thinking about this yesterday. Running is the one line I won't cross, which is crazy because it's great for your core, stamina and cardio-pulmonary systems. It's pretty rad.

But here's the limit I started with: just weights.

That was my rule. Then I added crunches and sit-ups, which I hate but are good exercises. They don't require any extra equipment and I can still do them in my house on my own time. Fine. So just weights and no-gear routines. No crazy douchebag supplements.

Well I drink milk with whey protein after now. Also, I've started switching to a much healthier diet with more protein, less fat and fewer calories. Technically, I'm only a little douche. I'm not taking anything with creatine or anything. There's barely any vitamins in what I got. It's just 100% whey protein heavy in amino acids. Considering I only drink organic skim milk, I figure this gets me all the fun of whole milk plus some.

So this is my final Maginot Line: don't be a douchebag runner.

You see I just hate dickball runners more than any other type of health nut. More than bikers, more than male yoga master, more than anything.

At least a musclehead has a respectable goal; he wants to have the best muscles, the biggest, the strongest, whatever. He wants to get jacked as fuck.

Runners just want to hold it over you.

"Oh, you can dead lift 480 lbs? That's nice. I'll be sure to remember that when I'm 80 and still running."

Fuck. That. Shit.

I hate running. Why the fuck would I want to be running when I'm 80?! For that matter, I'm already living past 80. Short of an accident, my genetics and standard rates for increased life expectancy say I should live to be about a hundred and twenty. Minimum.

Runners think they're in shape. They're not. Their muscles are stringy, their skin is a leathery hide worn by the elements endured from year-round running. Their knees are just doomed. In fairness, the extra strain will probably weaken their hearts and vascular systems. Yes, dying a renal failure in a hospital bed at 83 if much better than having your heart explode instantly when you're 67.

I'm pretty sure there's a happy medium for most people, but fuck that. I've got awesome genetics. Running is for regular asswipes trying to keep up with me and feel better about themselves

My friend said "If I see an 80 year old man running, I'm like 'Damn, fuck that dude,'
because I'm pissed he's in better shape than me."

Well NORMAL people think, "Look at that fucking asshole in his biking shorts and white Nikes. I hope he gets hit by a fucking car." That's why runners are worth the most points when you hit them out driving. (Fat people are negative points because they're harder to not hit.)

So no, no I will not become a runner. I'm getting in shape to be healthy and attractive, not to feel better than everyone around me. For that I can always just buy a Prius.

On Going Topless

So I've mentioned a bit recently that I started working out. I'm not even going to pretend like it's for any reason other than looking better. There is no consideration to my overall health involved.

That said, I'm getting tired of having to tell people I'm in shape. Apart from my shirts all fitting a littler differently now, I can't show that I'm in great shape, which is a shame because I'm only doing this to get people to look at me! It's like putting videos up YouTube videos of getting hit in your crotch. No, you don't want to be "Flaming Nutsack Guy," but obviously you do want that.

That said, here are a couple lists I've compiled to help me know when it is and is not appropriate to be showing off:


Times It Is Appropriate to Take Your Shirt Off

• To work out
  
• Before bathing
• At the beach/pool/water park or when otherwise swimming
• After the first 30 minutes of yard work, assuming you actually sweat
• When suddenly needing to make a tourniquet
• If you have become wet and would prefer to be dry
• During a sporting event in which you are "skins"
  
• If it is really really hot

I wasn't really sure about this one, but it seems to be in line with basic survival, so I'm gonna call it:

• To show gang affiliation
  

Times It Is NOT Appropriate to Take Your Shirt Off

• To prove a point
• While dancing
• If you have a horrible tattoo, ever.
  
• If you're a fucking mopey werewolf
• Any time you are watching The Jersey Shore

As a personal note, I would in closing like to inform all my female readers that according to New York State Penal Code §245.01 "Exposure of a Person," it is illegal for a woman to bare the portions of her breasts "below the top of the areola," unless breast feeding, performing or otherwise entertaining in a public setting.

This was overturned by the New York Court of Appeals, however, in the landmark 1992 case People vs. Santorelli, which states a woman may for the sake of equality bare her breasts in public so long as it is not in a commercial context.

So you can show me your boobs, but I can't pay for it. Neat.

On Gyms

I'm starting to plateau in the kind of results I can see lifting weights at home, so I'm putting some thought into joining a gym.

Many people are embarrassed to start hitting the gym because of how they look, but I'm more concerned with looking stupid because I have no idea how to perform any of the exercises.

This, I gather, is why people who aren't in shape tend to go to the 24-hour chain gyms in the middle of the night.

Everyone seems to think this way. Go to the gym when it's late and no one's around.

If that's the case and everyone's there at midnight I'm going to start going to the gym at three in the afternoon when no one's really around.

On Resolutions

I typically don't make New Year's resolutions. I'm that kind of person. Part of me says you're more likely to make a resolution you know you'll probably break or, quite the opposite, one you know it'll be easy to achieve. In either case it just seems pretty useless.

I usually feel that if there's something about my life I really want to change I'm supposed to have the strength of will to achieve it on my own or not at all. I don't need some kind of self-imposed holiday ruling to guide me, I can make my own arbitrary self-imposed deadlines, thank you.

That said, I've been going through a real uncharacteristic bout of positive body image of late, and I'm kind of wishing I had made "Get in shape" a New Year's resolution, if only to be able to say I accomplished it by January 6th.

I've never been in shape before. I've never been out of shape, but this whole looking good while being healthy thing is just kind of creepy. All of a sudden I'm looking forward to beaches and going shirtless and having sweaty, man-crazy arm wrestling matches in smokey truck stop barrooms.

But like all New Year's resolutions this too will probably fade. Hopefully if that happens all my friends will have already given up their designs on a healthier life too, and I'll still look fit by comparison.