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.