Day 32: Kenpo X.

I would go to a Kenpo X party. Twister, Pictionary, Spin-the-Bottle, Flip-Cup, Midget-Lesbian-KY-Jelly Wrestling: none of this would be as fun as Kenpo. I love watching Kung-Fu films; we all do (or at least should if we consider ourselves good, respectable people). Kenpo X has all the glory, ass-kickery, and martial arts wizardry of a Kung-Fu film, except you are Bruce Lee, you are the nimble, powerful purveyor of beat-downs and flying Karate chops. It's like you're a kid again, in your backyard, with your mom's hot-pink bedazzled belt tied around your head beating the hell out of imaginary henchmen. It can be anyone or anything. Today, we beat up Republican Nazi-Zombies. It was a bloodbath of Rambo-trilogy proportions. They never stood a chance against us. My swift, powerful and devastating upper-cuts and side-kicks coupled with Millard's confidence-obliterating, rabbit-cough-death-scream, creates an unstoppably dynamic duo of destruction. In short, if you are immature and lucky enough to have an equally immature buddy, this exercise is quite simply 'the shit'.

I don't see how I could have more fun at a party. I could be orgasming all over newly-minted 18-year old sorority girls while the ghost of Kurt Cobain injected me with high-grade bolivian black-tar heroine as I bite down into a piping-hot Veal Parmigian sandwich imported from Sicily, all the while listening to Neil Young play 'Old Man' in the corner of the room, and it might not even compare.* (OK, that might stack up, but it'd be a photo-finish).

Highlights: 12 million dead Republican Nazi-Zombies.

State of Mind: A place of calm, relaxed, murderous trascendentalism.

Rating: P90x!

*A lot has been said about "going to your happy place". We've seen it in Bill Madison and we've seen a variety of therapists, hypnotists and hippies suggest it. It often involves a sunny beach and frolicking. This is my ultimate 'happy place'. If I could train myself to visit this place, no horrible event in my life would be insurmountable. You could ram a hydraulic-powered steel umbrella in my rectum and flip it on, and I'd still be ok.

Day 31: Back and Biceps

After this workout, I sat on my couch in silence, sweat dripping from my brow and crashing against my floorboards. Defeat? Dejection? Disgrace? None of these describe what I was feeling. My brain was empty, not a single, solitary thought in sight. Just a general numb physical sensation all over my body like I was immersed in still cold water. I lifted my head and was startled by a faint, distant voice that slowly starting to come closer and closer. I could almost make out what it was saying and then bam! the 8 dollar Casio keyboard-driven beat kicked in and there was my answer to what I was feeling...

Back to lifee, Back to reaality; Back to lifee, Back to re-allityyy.

There is no statement, person, song, movie, or story that could better describe the sinking realization that rolled into my psyche than the early 90's R&B supergroup that overshadowed the sexiness and edge of Salt n' Pepa and that to date has sold more than 3 times as many albums as Nickelback (which is, sadly, a lot): En Vogue.

For the last 4 and-a-half weeks my outlook on my sex appeal has been soaring. Sure, there had been some ups-and-downs, but the general trajectory had been through the roof. At some point in this absurd growth of self-confidence I should have foreseen this windfall; I should have put in place the proper safeguards; I should have realized that this sort of reckless ego-inflation could not go on forever, but it felt so good. Foresight and responsibilty did not matter. My self-worth was as big as it had ever been. But, a lot of this "worth" was based on false returns - sure, I had gotten somewhat bigger, but not nearly big enough to support this over-inflated self-evaluation. The bubble bursted today. It was my Black Tuesday. I came back to life, back to reality. I desperately need a bail-out. My future plan is to make sure my self-image matches my actual physical growth. (And, yes, I just compared a proper self-image to how a succesful and efficient capitalist economy should operate).

(Do you remember in Garden State when Natalie Portman was showing the aloof and lovable Zack Braff how she likes to feel unique by doing a weird sound effect and dance that no one has ever done? Well, I just did that with the above paragraph: I am willing to guarantee you no human being on the planet has ever compared their self-image to both the recent economic crisis and the 90's R&B supergroup, En Vogue.)

Needless to say, the workout did not go super-well. I gave it my all. I enjoyed, but hit a wall; muscle fatigue settled in and would not leave. This routine was much more intense than the earlier ones, which rotated between three muscle groups so as not to bog each group down. This routine attacked your biceps like a flesh-hungry Nazi-Zombie. In the last half of the routine, I was able to push out a mind-boggling 1-2 curls for each exercise. Either way, I will get better at this exercise and it will rue the day it ever crossed my path.

Highlights: We were doing strip-sets at the end - you start on the highest weight and curl it to failure and then move down a weight and so on. I started on 30's, pumped out a 1/4 curl then went to failure; moved on to 20's, pumped out 1 with Millard spotting me; moved onto 15's, shook them against my hips a little; and, lastly, moved onto 10's and pumped out a mind-boggling 4 1/2 reps. Badass.

State of Mind: In the initial chunk of muscle growth exercises we sucked...bad. We eventually saw some serious progress, which is the lifeblood for workout motivation. The same will occur with this one in due time - it merely represents even more motivation to become a beast of a human being that overpowers woman's inhibitions and destroys men's egos.

Rating: There was nothing extreme about this effort so we can throw away the 'x': P32.

Day 30: Plyometrics

According to our crystal-meth infused workout instructor, "plyometrics is the mother of all P90X workouts". I arrived at home keeping this in mind - I had not eaten and knew I needed some fuel to get these burly appendages in motion. I was out of peanut butter, so my usual pre-gamer of pb toast was not an option. I had a big pile of prosciutto and cheddar cheese. I put these inbetween what used to be a bun, but has since then succumbed to freezer burn. I gobbled this down and prepared to sit on the couch and let it digest for the next hour. I did not realize it was 6:15 and the hockey game was on at 7:30. The workout is an hour, so we had to start.

I generally do not have many pearly nuggets of wisdom to impart, but, I strongly advise, not eating a large amount of salted Italian deli meat and cheese before you do the "mother of all P90X workouts". It felt like a large cinder block of meat and cheese had formed in my stomach. Every squat caused it to hit the top of my stomach and crash down against the bottom sending a meat and cheddar echo boom of a gas bubble up my esophagus and out my mouth. This continued for 15 minutes. Eventually, the sheer force of the half-digested cinder block impacting against the bottom of my stomach must have forced it down into my intestine.

After these 15 minutes of meat and cheese induced pain, we just killed it. Normally, there's a lot of huffing, hawing, complaining, and the occasional eyeball rolling back into the head. This time around, there was an eery focussed silence punctuated by perfectly-patterned breathing. Millard and Bomber ceased to exist for 45 minutes; they we're replaced by well-oiled, precison-engineered squat machines. No breaks; no complaints; only picture perfect execution. It was such an awe-inspiring physical feat, it could be included in Cirque de Soleil. If the IOC saw a video of us doing this, they would consider making it a demonstration sport in the summer games. If someone ever asks me to prove why I am better than them, I will just do plyometrics. (But, realistically doubting if I'm better than you is like doubting gravity - It's a law of nature).

Highlights: The quesy I-think-I-have-ebola look on my face during those 15 minutes of meat-cheese hell.

State of Mind: Even with all the salty meat and cheese in me, I was able to rip through the whole thing. The improvement from 5 weeks ago is insane. In short, I feel great.

Rating: P90X

Day 29: Shoulder, Triceps, Chest and Ab Ripper X.

Last week was a recovery week, which gave us the weekend off. Most people that are willing to put themselves through this gauntlet of ridiculous abuse would take the time to eat well and look after their body. I, for a daunting number of mostly negative reasons, am not like most people. My weekends attempt to undo all of the sexy, stunning, early Beatle's scream-inducing hotness that occurs during the week. Essentially, 3/4ths of my week is outraged at the 1/4 that ate 5 cheeseburgers* and drank well over 20 pints (2 of those being Whisky). It is ruining my general hotness. My weekends are Ringo Starr: 1/4 that ruins the overall sex appeal. Oh well - I eat super-well and work crazy-hard during the week, so I should be able to burn all the big-nosedness and lack of musical talent away. I am super commited to this program - in short, I am Yoko-proof.

This week is a "muscle-building" week. I don't know what the hell we were doing before, but apparently we're ready to build muscle now. We had to start a little later than usual. I was busy working at the "HomeShow" offering something that has the power to reverse thousands of years of socialization and civility: free stuff. It tears away the paper-thin decoration of morality, care, and civility that apparently makes us better than any other organism, revealing the snarling, cheating, lying, fece-throwing, monkey-animal core that will push over a baby for a free sample of a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Naturally, the stress from the illusion of our 'humanity' being wiped away like permanent marker with a Magic Eraser, drove me to spend 2-and-a-half hours drinking 1-dollar red wine samples, which is convenienty placed next to the indoor putting-green booth. This would prove to be a costly error.

I arrived home drunk - not, David Hasselhoff drunk, but nicely buzzed - busting through the door. Millard asked me if I was ready and then looked at me like I just asked him to split a "fleshlight". (By "split" I mean paying for half of it; the other meaning is quite possibly the worst image known to man). Nevertheless, we descended into my dungeon of debaucherous douchebaggery ready to wreak disaster and destruction upon our unsuspecting muscles.**I quickly gobbled down my usual peanut-butter toast pre-gamer, put my board-shorts on, and stood in front of the TV looking on like some poor schmuck in a firing-line. This was going to be a our toughest workout - I could sense it. And I was completely not ready for it. I was worried it was going to be like my first hockey fight when I was 12 years-old: I was dog-tired after a long shift and some dude that looked like my Uncle decided it would be a good time to fight me. I had nothing in the tank and was easily trounced by this bearded 12 year-old.

But, honestly, after the first 15 minutes, which consisted of red-wine and peanut-butter burps, I was feeling much better.

However, there's no mistaking it; this exercise is hard - especially, when you're filled with cheap wine. P90X has somehow upped the ante. The first four weeks we were sitting at the 5-10 table acting like we were Big Daddy Kane and Jay-Z. Now, we have officially arrived at the big-boy's table. This exercise shatters any illusions you have of being able to handle P90X. Allow me to re-introduced myself, my name is P! 9 -to-the-O X! But, now I gonna break backs like Bow-Flex! (Listen to it and sing these lyrics).

We struggled through it and, at times, it felt like our very first work-out. But, those, "I am-dying-moments", felt good this time and we were able to break though them and keep on pushing. We reacted like men to a hard situation and we immediately put on Ab Ripper X afterwards. Sometimes, you can be in over your head, but it's how you react - we held our heads high, unflinchingly staring and gritting our teeth at this beast of a workout.

This manly moment makes up for the ubar-gay one that occured two hours later while I was watching the Ice-Dancing finals (and no that's not only it). It was the end of the Canadian's Moir and Virtue's dance; bodies pressed firmly against eachother; hands clasped; music fades out - I begin to mouth the word "beautif...", but it is interrupted by a weird mouth shiver, followed by what can only be described as 'sextricity' rushing up my spine and a slight eye-watering. For the record, I did not cry, but this could still make me gay. You be the judge...

Highlights: The most epic yelling we've ever busted out. No gay jokes here - the yelling was the epitome of hedorosexual manliness. If you closed your eyes, you would honestly believe Mel Gibson and a bunch of skirt-clad crazy men we're running across a field towards you.

State of Mind: We got beat up; the English were just too much. But, damn, we left it all out there and wiped that cocksure smile of their bloody ugly mugs. Regardless, we loved every minute of it and you simply cannot doubt our heart.

Rating: P63X + 7 for 'heart' = P70X

*If you recall last weekend I had a McDonalds orgy, which consisted of 4 burgers. So, I'm averaging 4.5 burgers every Saturday and Sunday.

** The only book in my bathroom the other day was the Dictionary, so I paged through the 'D' section.

Day 25: Core Synergistics

My last few entries have been long and have had almost nothing to do with working out. So, this one will be short, sweet, possibly sexy, and to the point. I will not discuss Tiger Woods and how weird and telling it is that the whole world stops what they're doing to hear from a guy who hits a ball with a stick and feels bad about banging a lot of women. I will also not bring up that 40 years ago, less channels covered a man named Kennedy discuss the impending threat of total nuclear annihilation. I will also not raise the interesting question of 'what if both of these events occured at the same time'? Or ponder about whether we'd be interested in the possibility of indefinite cold nuclear winter or Tiger Woods? And, lastly, I will not answer the latter question by launching into a fake newscaster dialogue regarding this matter, which would look like this:

Well, Bob, how do you think cold nuclear winter and Tiger's sex scandal will effect his game? Jim, I think Tiger is so mentally tough that he will be able to ignore all these distractions and we've seen him excel in all sorts of weather conditions - so, this cold nuclear winter shouldn't pose a problem. Given what we've seen from him, a deep, dark, zombie-wasteland of lifelessness and misery is but a mere bump in his path to total world, err, golf domination.

In summation, all of these grueling exercises are making me feel great - mentally and physically. 

We did core synergistics today, which works the whole body - different push-ups, tri-cep exercises, squats, curls etc. - with a focus on the core. It beat the shit out of us. I was left crumpled on the ground gasping for air like a right-wing newscaster trying to prove water-boarding isn't toture. But, the funny thing is, I felt great. Not just afterwards when my body got a chance to calm down, but right at that exhausting, fetal-position inducing moment. I enjoy it, I thirst for it; blood-pumping, veins expanding, endorphins rushing. It's like sex without the complaining. At first, I'd feel awful and whine and cry like a baby after these viscious beatings, but not after today's. I have gone from a whinny battered wife to a full on sado-masochist in 25 days. Remarkable. 

Highlights: Filled to the brim with roughneck, blitzkrieg, 'I don't give a fuck about how I feel tomorrow' moments. 

State of Mind: Working out has definitely effected the speed, quality, and clarity of my thoughts. It's like I went from DOS to Windows 7. (Fuck Macs, they should come with horn-rimmed glasses, skinny jeans and an arrogant air of indifference). I also have more energy and a general want to be productive. I don't just want to sit around playing videogames. It's making me some weird-being that is responsible and doesn't just wait around for things to come to him; it might be making me an adult. I honestly, went to Home Depot today to buy drywall plugs and then stopped by Zellers to look at area rugs. (I actually did this).

Rating: We almost did absolutely everything, but some of them just sent our rugged cores into failure. P81X.

Day 24: Yoga X

Time to unpack some emotional baggage; come along and help if you would like. With this work-out program and this blog, I've been forced to monitor 'how I'm feeling' and, sometimes, push deeper than simply what the emotion is and down into 'why' I am feeling that certain thing. I know that sounds gayer than a Hugh Grant movie (except Love Actually, which was actually pretty cool; I'm being serious - watch it, it will touch you in ways family members only dream of and gym teachers named Mr. Feeny have).* Keep in mind, I'm opening this messy, mucky, turbulent, and terrifying emotional vortex for you, my faithful readers. In short, you are my Oprah - so, at least, pretend to care.

So, as you can see, I've been doing a little self-reflection. This involves not only looking honestly at what you think about yourself, but also, being open to what others think; noticing the tiny details that you normally pass over. In the last day I have realized that I am two pretty horrible things. There's a lot to explain here - I'll try to be concise, here goes. 

So, I was playing with the local children at the park. (This is not a good start). Let me explain, I have an outdoor ice hockey rink near my house. I was shooting the puck around and all of a sudden I am surrounded by little kids that I am much better than at hockey (and, I imagine, most other sports). Naturally, I stuck around. I out-skated them, out-shot them, and just generally out-played them; it was embarrassing. One of the kids even brought a juicebox into the rink. We made fun of him; it was wicked. At the tail-end of Bomber's Hockey Clinic, I taught the kids about the importance of the off-wing one-timer and how it allowed Brett Hull to score goals by the bushel. They had never heard of Brett Hull and did not know what a bushel was. 

As the clinic ended, I took off my skates and decided to talk to one of the parents about their inability to educate their children about great people in history and varied forms of measurement. She was super-nice, but in a weird way. Like how medal presenters at the Special Olympics interact with the athletes. She asked me where I was "staying". I said just down there and pointed towards my house. This struck me as odd. I walked home passing by the shelter that I live by trying to figure out why she was so nice to me. I looked down at my clothes - ripped jogging pants, haggard shoes, and an old, grungy sweater - and then looked over into the shelter window and saw the reflection of my gross, dishevelled beard-covered face (I'm growing a P90X beard). Like a giant tidel wave of urine and used syringes, it hit me: she thought I was homeless. Someone actually thought I was homeless; not the somewhat grungy university student with potential and vision, but just a grungy, homeless man.  

 As for the second horrible thing, I had work this morning and this nice Asian girl said she would drive me home. When we were done, I walked alongside this nice Asian girl and said, "I'm ready. Take me home". Turns out it was the wrong girl. So, this girl thinks I'm either creepy and have the worst pick-up lines of all time or I'm racist, which makes for a less-than-comfortable workplace environment. In all fairness, they had similar jackets and after looking at her terror-filled face, I realized it was the wrong girl. I don't know, you be the judge. I, personally, don't think I'm actually racist - at least, no more than the next guy. (What I mean by that is we clearly live within an oppressive cultural structure and, if we are not super-vigilant about these pressures, we can be imbued - consciously or subconsciously - with faulty, bigoted, and ignorant prejudices).

Thanks for letting me get that off my insane-o pumped chest. Alas, we did Yoga today. It's super-hard and 80 minutes long. You sweat more than a _________ (insert joke here, if I try, it'll probably just come off as racist). We're getting better, but it's definitely our most embarrassing routine. We generally fall, fart, and fail. However, we are noticing better levels of flexibility, which provides all the motivation necessary to continue. Plus, I may eventually be able to do the ultimate yoga position - it allows you to reach Nirvana, which is the name of my penis.

Highlights: Pretty much that joke above. I'm not very funny or smart, but that joke, apparently, does not know that.

State of Mind: It's the exercise I least look forward too, but it's motivating to see some increased flexibility. I'm also excited to put my dick in my mouth. 

Rating: P55X

*Can someone tell me the rules on where the period goes after the bracket. (And, no, I am not discussing the details of the Feeny-Weeny events).  

Day 23: Shoulders and Arms and Kenpo X

Mornings are different now. I wake up feeling great, energized, and with an overwhelming sense of purpose. I don't really know what this purpose is considering my days consist of an hour of working out, twenty minutes of writing, and 10-13 hours of Olympic watching. I spent an hour-and-a-half watching the powerhouse Russians take on the Finns in women's hockey in French. To put it in perspective, I spent more time watching a horrible bastardization of the sport I love in a different language than being productive. I'm addicted - if you could boil down the Olympics into a solution, I would inject it intravenously. If for whatever bio-chemical reasons it could only be made into a hockey-puck sized suppository, bring it on. Get Crosby to slide a perfect pass over to Iginla and one-timer it in there! If anything, the hockey-puck sized suppository would be more fitting (and, no, that's not a cheap and predictable pun about my sloppy yoga-stretched butthole. I am referring to the prominent role hockey plays in these Olympics). But, Bomber, that would be a highly ineffective technique to apply the suppository. Nonsense, if you watched the game last night you would have seen Crosby and Iginla easily threading needles and picking cherries; my butthole would pose no problem. In any event, I don't really know why I am so obsessed; maybe, my hour workouts from home allow me to understand the training these athletes have to put in. 

The second my eyes fluttered open this morning I was awake and it was 9:30 in the morning. In the last week or so I have been getting up between 9 and 10. For the average person, this is "sleeping-in". For me, it's a foreign beautiful place: actual morning. In the Ranch and Cheese era of my life I could sleep-in for a whole day and not even realize it, which really screws up your day and class schedule. In third year of university, I woke up once before 10 am and that was to drink (it was St. Patty's day). Granted, I love to sleep-in, but, now, once my eyes open, I am energized, ready to roll and full of piss and vinegar.* 

I did two workouts today. I still feel guilty about the weekend, so I am giving my increasingly-ripped and action hero-like body another present. I added the most sexifying workout, Shoulders and Arms. Almost every action-movie poster has a dude holding really heavy guns with giant thigh-like python arms. As of yet, I don't think I could hold those heavy guns and my arms barely even look like male arms let alone male arms that look like thighs. So, the addition was an easy call. It went well. Although, I wasn't super into it; normally, I yell and scream and make all sorts of manly grunts. But, nevertheless, I trucked through it.

I finished the workout just before Millard got home; awful timing. I would have to do both workouts basically back-to-back. Whatever, Rambo fought an entire country's army and won, so this shouldn't pose a problem. We did Kenpo X, which is like Tae Bo except extreme and not gay. This one fits in perfectly with my action-hero aspirations. Once you get the arms, you need the moves. It's also wicked fun with a partner. High-kick, low-kick, hook, upper-cut, followed by "hahhhh", "arghhh", "you die now", "hadukkin", "there can only be one highlanderrrrr". This initially annoyed the shit out of Millard, but he caught on. It reminded me of when I was a kid and had just finished watching a sick action movie with my brother or buddy. As the credits for Operation Condor rolled, you would pull back the couches, and assault every enemy couch cushion with a myriad of deadly Chan-like maneuvers. It's a lot of fun and I highly recommend this exercise especially at parties.

Highlights: Near the end of the first exercise, they asked us to grunt after our punches. I let out a manly, caveman stay-away-from-my-territory-and-women grunt so I couldn't hear Millard at all. During the next punch, as I was about to grunt, my throat sort of stiffened so I couldn't let anything out, which allowed for one of the funniest things I've ever heard: Millard's man grunt. It sounded like a Rabbit coughing. Or a three-old getting the wind knocked out of his lungs. Or a gay-butthole wheezing. It was ridiculous. The exercise had to be paused for 5 minutes because I couldn't stop laughing.

State of Mind: I think my body might be getting less gross. I was touching myself today and after about the first hour I made my way down to my abs. Jesus Christ! No, seriously, I thought I was touching the Son of God they felt so amazing. I just need to eat a little bit better because there is still a little layer fat - nothing insane - that blocks these awe-inspiring slabs of muscle. It's like having the greatest show on earth blocked by a curtain. It's time to pull back the curtain and amaze the audience. 

Rating: S & A (P79X) + Kenpo (P85X) = P82X

*Although, I would much rather be full of essential vitamins, proteins, and carbohydrates than urine and vinegar. Who are these people that derive energy from being filled with urine and vinegar? Anything you eat vinegar with is filling, makes you tired, and has little nutritional value like French Fries. So, either you're eating a large amount of things like fries or you're just chugging vinegar, which, I have never done, but I don't imagine it would make you want to play soccer afterwards. And who derives energy from being full of urine? Even if you were some sort of evolutionarily advanced being that could synthesize and derive nutrients via the bladder, wouldn't you rather be full of the actual stuff that urine-waste comes from? And, who would want to do energetic things with a full bladder - marathoners piss themselves in front of millions of people because it sucks so much being full of urine. I am boycotting this phrase until someone explains it to me.   

Day 22: Core Synergistics

P90X is a 5 or 6 day-a-week program. On your 'rest' days they expect you to eat well and, you guessed it, rest. I finished my workout on friday with this in mind. Fast forward to 5 am Saturday morning in London: I am double-fisting McDonald's burgers; simultaneously shoving one into my sauce-splattered face while dipping the other in a bowl of McChicken sauce and Hellman's mayonnaise. (So, a bowl of mayo). McDonald's burgers - in this case, a Big Mac and Double Cheeseburger (and, yes, they deserve capitals due to their culinary awesomeness) - are considered by many to be one of the worst things you can eat. Dipping every bite of 'one of the worst things you can eat' in a fat paste we have decided to refer to as "mayonnaise", probably doesn't smack of the decision-making of someone committed to a work-out program. However, this is as far from the truth as possible. How far from the truth Bomber? Well, since you asked, it's as far from the truth as saying Jay Leno is funny, Jean Chretien didn't make Canada look mildly retarded for 8 years, Keanu Reeves has acting range, and that K.D. Lang is hot. (Who would you rather, K.D. Lang or Jean Chretien or the pile of vomit that just shot from your mouth? I'd personally rather fuck the vomit that shot from your mouth than K.D. Lang or Jean Chretien. If the two cared about national security, they'd make a porn tape. Now, that is an effective enhanced interrogation technique. Plus, how entertaining would it be to have Mike Duffy and some conservative debating whether the Chretien-Lang sex tape constitutes torture). 

The  mass beer and mayo intake from the weekend created a big pulsating ball of guilt in my stomach as well as a dying turd baby in my bowels. This guilt has made me more committed; it made me realize how important this thing is to me. It's like when a guy cheats on his girlfriend and buys her a gift. The incredible pang of guilt he feels makes him realize how much he actually cares for this girl and that immediately turns into fear of losing her for various reasons (all circling around the fact he knows he deserves to be dumped). So, to ensure he won't lose her, he buys her a gift.* I bought my body a gift. On Sunday I went to the grocery store and bought every vegetable and fruit I could possibly eat. For Lunch today I ate a salad (the recent Yoga sessions with Millard combined with this, definitely makes me full-gay). I also feel super-guilty and, as a result, I will pay way more attention to my body, listen to it, care for it and pretend its irrational ramblings amount to something sensible. 

Every three weeks the program changes. We had gotten accustomed to the videos, knew what to expect, and could mentally prepare for the tyrannical onslaught of pain. Now, we have no idea what's coming, which, I think, is unfair. Before, a fighter goes into a ring he knows his opponent, his strengths and weaknesses, and generally knows what to expect. Today, we're fighting blind. This 4th week is a recovery week. We weren't sure what that meant, but it led us to believe today's exercise - Core Synergistics - would be an easy victory like the old guy in the first level of Mike Tyson's Punch-Out. 

Instead, we got Mike Tyson. Sans face-tattoo Tyson; young, angry, blood-boiling, Terminator-arms Tyson; I wanna eat your babies Tyson. This exercise combined with the weekend, made me feel worse than the time I ate that bucket of expired potato salad. (Yes, Dad, I also thought as long as potato salad was in a sealed bucket it could last for 6 months.) It was, in short, unexpected and painful. (Just like those chicks that don't know their pregnant on TLC. Have you seen that shit? How do you not know you have a growing human in your stomach? I can tell what brand of salsa I've eaten by how it feels in my stomach). 

In any event, it works your whole body with a focus on the core. 60 minutes with two 30-second breaks. And, no, I am not referring to sex with me. It was awful. And, yes, I am referring to sex with me. 

Highlights: Millard hobbling around yelling "my groin, my groin" as I lay face-down, star-fished on the hard-wood floor. (Just like the weekend. Kidding. Seriously, we're not gay).

State of Mind: The weekend guilt has re-focused my commitment. Simple and plain, from Europe to Spain, I am doing this. That is all.

Rating: P64X.

*I am not saying this is a logical move, but neither is drinking 30 beers and dipping greasy cheeseburgers in a bowl of mayo.

Day 18 (catch-up day): Ab Ripper X, Shoulders and Arms and Yoga X

I was speaking with someone today that did not know me, but had read this thing. It became apparent that some people - considering all they know about me is that I workout and would probably make a great life partner - think that I might actually be a fit person. This is not true - I'm as fit as a person as Paul Bernardo is a good baby-sitter. (But, I'm trying to remedy this, rehab it, just like Paul - maybe, one day he will become a good baby-sitter and I will have abs. Only time will tell). Nevertheless, I am skinny and hopelessly unfit. I could body double for Keith Richards in a new 'Pirates of the Caribbean' movie. The fact I am doing this defies the comprehension of every person that I know including my mom and probably God. If I complete this workout regimen it will most likely disprove determinism. That's a lot of pressure: the ability to end arguably the longest standing and most frustratingly abstract philosophical dilemmas in the history of man. Plus, if, in doing this, I defy the comprehension of God, then this being cannot possibly be God. So, I'd also have that under my belt. All that being said, the most important thing to have under my belt, is abs; beautiful, shiny, clit-boner inducing abs. 

I had to skip thursday's workout so I had to play catch-up today. I spent my day either working out or watching olympic coverage about the upcoming coverage of the olympics. (If the Haiti disaster occured during this week, what do you think would get more press: the plight of an entire nation literally buried under the rubble of their fallen infrastructure or the coverage of the eventual coverage of the actual olympics?).  In any event, today casted any doubts aside that I am not 100% commited to total boby-rippage and mass-level clit-boner induction. Around 10 a.m. I slammed my bagel down sending sesame seeds of ab-ripping hope everywhere. I beared down on Ab Ripper X and made every exercise my little bukkake princess (read: I did most of the exercises perfectly). But, alas, there was one finnicky, stubborn bitch that would not cowtow to my awesome muscular authority: the v-up roll back. You basically do a sit-up with your legs flat on the ground and then as you come back down you bring your straightened legs to about a 45 degree angle. At which point, you crunch up against the downward force and touch your toes without changing the angle of your legs. It's mega-difficult, but not completely utterly insane like the diamond push-up, which would laugh at its inferiority. 

Considering what I'd done to the Ab Ripper Princesses, one might think I'd have nothing left in the tank. Those naysayers would be wrong. I bent over Shoulders and Arms and sprayed it down with determination, heart, grit, muscular perserverance, fortitude, and a little bit of urine. Shoulders and Arms, naturally, made me a sandwich of my choosing afterwards: tuna with perfectly-sized chunks of pickles. 

I let the sandwich settle and digest, I put on a new pair of underwear, and I was upstairs awaiting my third and final session of the day, Yoga X. I'm fairly certain yoga is supposed to be a peaceful, relaxing, and, for some, transcendental workout. P90X is about war, physical and mental stress, and worrying about the future reality of your body. In short, it is the opposite; a yin to yoga's yang. Yoga X reflects this distinction - it is probably the most difficult exercise to do move for move. It will take time to master this routine and any progress will have to be spoon-fed to me. Although, apparently, "there is no spoon", so I don't know where the fuck that leaves me.

Highlights: You stretch muscles and tendons around your hips and pelvis that you did not know were even there. This relaxes everything in that area producing some of the more epic farts known to man. I almost farted for an entire hold-and-freeze position. 

State of Mind: I still have the body-structure of somewhere in between Ellen Degeneres and a 1982 Woody Allen. Although, Ellen is banging Portia De Rossi and Woody pulled George Clooney-like pussy in the 80's. In short, I mentally feel good, but physically appear the same.

Rating: Ab (P85X), S & A (P80X), Yoga (P50X) = P71.66666X

Day 16: Plyometrics

According to our oftenly douchebaggy and generally encouraging fitness instructor, "plyometrics is the mother of all P90X workouts". It's pure cardio and leg assault. It leaves you drenched in sweat and begging for mercy. The amount of sweat you produce during this workout almost seems humanly impossible. I'm seriously concerned for Millard's neck when we do this; Patricia (Millard's sweaty-beard) bloats like a sea-monkey. It must weigh ten pounds. It looks like he has half of a hairy life-preserver wrapped around his face. That being said, everytime we've done plyometrics we come prepared, but inevitably have to take a few extra breaks. 

At 5:30 I believed that giant penis-shaped cheetos existed. At 5:31 Millard shook me awake from my nap (my phone was on vibrate). I groggily dragged my feet upstairs and we began. About 1 minute in Millard lets me know he made me a peanut butter toast. We've already started, there's no turning back. So, there I am doing leg raises, eyes glazed over, still trying to figure out if these giant penis cheetos are on the market, eating a peanut butter toast. Needless to say, this was the least prepared I've been for plyometrics.

But guess what? We bent over plyometrics sending cheeto dust everywhere. We did it! This is an absolutely amazing achievement. I understand how the Jamaican Bobsled team felt walking their sled past the finish line, how Rudy felt being carried off the field, how Rocky felt beating Draggo and avenging the loss of his friend, how Obama felt winning that thing, how Matt Damon felt winning the Rugby world cup and uniting a nation (I haven't even seen Invictus, I'm assuming they win)* and how Oprah feels everyday. No breaks! The mother of all P90X workouts! Kill me now, I've reached my peak.

Highlights: I had to workout in front of Millard because everytime he turned his head, a splash of sweat would squirt from Patricia. Patricia squirting on you is gross (get it? HA! vaginal excretions!! R-R-R-Raannndddyyyy**).

State of Mind: Again great cardio and awful strength. Still in 8 year-old boy territory.

Rating: A first for us, P90X!

* How much better would it be if Morgan Freeman was Nelson Mandela and Barack Obama for that matter?

** If you don't get that reference your life is much worse than it could be. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSS5Tr0UHZQ Randy is a few minutes in.

Day 15: Chest and Back and Ab Ripper X.

I hate this routine more than I hate period blood. It's a bloody mess and a total confidence-shatterer. Any feelings of strength, manliness, or sexiness you have built throughout the week are viciously squeezed out of you like a meal on a Caribbean vacation. (Wow, period blood and mind-blowing vacation diarrhea in the first three sentences; I  clearly cater to the high-brow demo). It's just absolutely insane. There's more different types of push-ups in this routine than I've had sex, than Kennedy's in government, than people who want to punch Michael Landsberg in the face, than reasons to feel guilty when watching Miley Cyrus etc. Point being, there's a lot. My personal nemesis is the diamond push-up. Just saying it, makes me cringe and shiver. Whoever invented these clearly never tried to do one - they're almost impossible and only bring pain and regret into this world. If I had the ability to go back in time and either uninvent the diamond-pushup or the nuclear bomb, I'd have to sit and think about it for awhile. I know some of you are thinking a nuclear bomb has clearly brought more pain and regret into this world than a type of push-up. To those, I ask, have you ever done a diamond push-up? I have and, although I've never been in a nuclear explosion, I don't see how it could be worse.  

Highlights: Our douchebag instructor told us to set our goals for diamond push-ups beforehand and that he was going to do 30. You have 40 seconds for this particular section. In that time, I was able to crank out 1 girl (on your knees) diamond push-up where I went down 2/3rds of the way. Jacked-Town, population: me. 

State of Mind: I'm 1/8th of the way through this program and if I keep up at this pace I will end up looking the same with slightly larger triceps and a beard. I don't see much of a difference. However, I still feel great and, that alone, provides enough reward for doing this. I think. I hope. 

Rating: P35 + 5 for unneccesary manly screaming = P40X

Day 14: Ab Ripper X and Shoulders and Arms

As I write this, I am inhaling leftover cream-cheese rolls, wings and half-empty beers. I may not understand or like football, but, goddamn, I love the Superbowl. Normally, when you invite people over to your house they only bring a mess, just enough alcohol for themselves, and bad jokes. The SuperBowl is a whole other ballgame - it makes your friends better people to have over. It's like Christmas, but without disturbing and smelly old people that you are forced to listen too (Madden is gone now). Since my TV makes my roommate's moving image screen look like an etch-a-sketch, my depressing, dungeon of masturbatory hopelessness was nominated as the party spot. It worked out well. Every person played an integral part in creating the most heart-stopping, boner-inducing smorgasbord of delectable grease-infused treats that I have ever seen. I've never been happier to hang out with inferior people. Without me saying a word, some guy I've never met in my life cooked and served a platter of 52 wings. (I later found out that he was Adam's brother).

All of this plus the fact I apparently missed Friday's workout might lead one to think my odyssey of body-rippitude is coming to an end. To those, I say nay! I had to skip my Friday workout because I had to write the LSAT on Saturday. (Apparently, no hot girls or guys for that matter, want to be lawyers. This makes me not want to be a lawyer - mostly because according to my unnecessarily absolute statement above, I could not be good-looking, which is absurd). So, I subbed in the workout today. And killed it. With my new Wal-Mart weights in tow, I viciously assaulted my muscles. They should be placed in a Yellow Brick home. Although, I ate enough grease for a small-man to slip on and drown in, I am happy I had the willpower to fit in a workout beforehand.

Highlights: General ass-kickery and mega-pumpage.

State of Mind: I watched Rudy the other day and his lack of determination makes me laugh. I am seeing this shit through no matter what. 

Rating: P83X

Day 11: Ab Ripper X and Yoga.

I felt tight, strong, and lean today. All day I just wanted to lift heavy things. I didn't even bother to put on a shirt until well into the afternoon. I woke up this morning wanting to get things done - I immediately tackled the giant, precarious pile of dishes in my kitchen. At one point some soapy water splashed against my stomach. I went to wipe it off, but everything turned slo-mo, and Barry White's voice echoed throughout the room - "Ohhh yeahhh" - as the water trickled down my tan, olive-skinned washboard stomach ever so gently dribbling into my perfectly-sized belly button and beyond. I think I might be developing a more positive body image. I also tried to go grocery-shopping, but apparently you need a shirt to do that. "Sir, can you please stop lifting the watermelons and leave the premises". In short, I'm starting to feel better about myself.

We started with Ab Ripper X, which I actually enjoyed. At first, this whole working out thing is painful and it sucks and you only do it because you know you should. But, after a while, it starts to feel great and you actually look forward to it and want to do it. For all those girls reading, this is EXACTLY like butt-sex. I know know, it seems gross and even insulting to your vagina, but if I, of all people, can do P90X then you can do butt-sex. 

We moved on to Yoga, which was 80 minutes, but worth it. And, somehow, I'm crazy-good at it. I'm like an 8th level Yogi master. At one point, I sunk into a deep meditative state and ascended to the next-level of consciousness. It was on a cloud and Chris Farley was there. All in all, this was actually a great workout and stretches out some areas you didn't even know existed. It also would have been very relaxing and calming if Millard didn't laugh the entire time. 

Highlights: Millard and I, in downward dog, with our asses pushed high in the air, simultaneously exhaling and moaning, "oh that feels sooo fuckin' good". I actually think we might be half-gay for that moment alone, which combined with the time Millard slept-walked naked into my room in second year, probably makes us full-gay. 

State of Mind: A transcendent level where the material world and even language does not exist, which makes it hard to explain. To understand: take mescaline and watch replays of Ovechkin's goals.

Rating: P80X

Day 10: Shoulders and Arms

I had a negative experience this morning that left me feeling stressed-out and downright awful. This made for the best work-out I've had...ever. I was mean, powerful, and bloodthirsty. I was like a bulked-up, bad-ass bull getting his balls squeezed to the point of bursting. I was Robert Deniro, Jake Lamotta; I was a raging Italian bull. (Seriously, it was badass - at one point I ripped my shirt off and yelled out "Adriaaannee". Apparently, I was an older version of Jake Lamotta that had seen 'Rocky').*

  I've stumbled upon The Secret to working-out and it is negative thinking. I came in hating myself -my brain housed the entire spectrum of negative thoughts. Oxygen, glucose, lactic acids, ATP: fuck all that noise - stress is hands down the best muscle fuel. I was pumping insane amounts of iron as punishment and it was extremely pleasurable. I know that sounds creepy and it is.** But, it works.

 From now on, in the morning, I am going to sit and visualize all the negative things that I want in my life and maybe even make a collage of them. And with the power of consciousness via the vibrational energies that surround us, I will be able to actualize these quantum potentialities of awful, esteem-crushing things. Or so I've been told.

Also, if you are a friend of mine, I need you to help me. Write me, talk to me in person, whatever - just let me know why I should hate myself or reasons why you hate me. Don't hold back, anything will be helpful. "You think you are smarter and funnier than you are". "Your beard looks like male inner-thigh hair". "I had sex with you once and your balls were gross and orange". Whatever it is, from the big to the small, anything will help. Just text HATE and the charge will show up on your...too soon?

 Highlights: Chock full of moments involving ass-kicking and the taking of numbers.

 State of Mind: I felt powerful and virile like a raging stud-bull. I definitely have never felt more fertile.

 Rating: I did almost everything - P85X.

 *It is becoming increasingly clear to me that I am only capable of connecting with reality through scenes in famous movies. 

** If you've been reading this blog, you might be wondering why I keep bringing up BDSM. I am not sure why and I don't think I deserve to know why because I've been bad and should be punished. 

 

Day 9: Plyometrics

Plyometrics makes you sweat out any reservations you have that P90X is not one of the most bad-ass, extreme workouts you can put yourself through. It feels like you're at a gruesome football-training camp - all that's missing is Denzel Washington barking commands and representing the unity required in racially segregated suburban communities in the 1950s. (And, yes, I did see 'Remember the Titans' this weekend and, yes, Denzel Washington is more thugging than the entire genre of Gangster Rap). 

That being said, we fuckin' dun' did it. Bang! Bang! Bitches. (Read: we competently finished our exercise-routine today). Millard and I just killed it. We were like Rambo, John McClane, and the whole A-Team rolled into one, fighting against the formidable foes of communism and healthcare reform (or whatever foes one may consider formidable). 

My cardio is at a really good level. So, combining yesterday's knowledge with today's, we know now that I can't lift heavy things, but I can run around a lot. I'm basically your average 8-year old boy. This, to many, would be a very depressing realization, but not for me. How many 8-year olds do you know that have lost their virginity? That shit is ballin'. Plus I can drive and sometimes even smoke cigarettes. I also own the most feared pog-Smasher and have the most unstoppable deck of pokemon cards. (Can something be the 'most unstoppable? Whatever, I'm 8). So, yeah, this isn't disheartening or soul-shattering or watch-John-Cusack-movies-while-simultaneously-eating-cheetos-and-touching-your-balls depressing or anything like that.

Highlights: Patricia was as sloppy as people at banquet halls in Kincardine today. (For those of you who don't know, Patrica is Millard's sweaty-beard and Kincardine is the hick town that he is from). 

State of Mind: I am very pleased with my cardio. It was grueling, but fun today. Unfortunately, I have become fully aware that I have the muscular fortitude of the kid from Jerry Maguire.

Rating: We did it all with an extra 3 short breaks, P80X.

Day 8 (6 & 7 were rest days): Chest and Back and Ab Ripper X

Today, I woke up trying to be happy and positive about my lot in life. Look on the bright side, enjoy everyday, be one with the universe in all its infinite beauty et al. I grabbed a steaming cup of coffee, ascended my stairs in my moldy cancer-inducing dungeon of a basement apartment, and was immediately assaulted by bitter cold, cloudy skies, and the all to familiar odour of homeless urine. This would be the best part of my day.

Fast forward three hours: I am in my underwear, hopelessly attempting to put in some hours for my LSAT prep, and watching Sportscentre for the fifth time around. "Ahh good try Kypr, 5 times now and you still sound like an idiot". I either can look down and trudge through some LSAT q's, look up and see Kypr drooling on an over-priced shirt, or left to my ever-growing pile of dishes. This would be the second best part of my day.

Fast forward to just after P90X: We are finished, but I feel no sense of pride, only the sting of sweat dripping in my eye and the crystal-clear epiphany that I am fucking weak...as shit. It was ridiculous folks; just downright pitiful. Call it a moral victory if you please, but that's about as meaningful as saying there is a "winner" in a Leafs'/Oilers' game. It was like all the school-yard teasings and esteem-shattering occurrences in my life were concentrated into one 60-minute video. "Alright, time for diamond push-ups, I am going to do 30". "I can't do one; not now, not ever and I think my ears are bleeding". I absolutely hate the P90X guy, he's so smug and unnecessarily peppy and always hitting on hot sweaty girls. I have no energy, hate myself, and have no hot sweaty girls near me; only Patricia, which is what I named Millard's sweat-soaked beard. That thing must absorb at least a gallon of sweat each workout. This was the worst part of my day.

Highlights: Patricia looked gruesome today. My apartment floorboards aren't nailed in, so they float around as you slide and grunt on them. I think it adds a new extreme(ly sad) dimension to the whole thing. 

State of Mind: I have a fierce eagle-like commitment to this whole thing. I am not giving up on these home workouts - although, I may just switch to the Chuck Norris tapes. Kidding - I have a rock-solid, unwavering determination to see this thing through. I just don't think I'll look that good after.

Rating: P32X