Day 64: Shoulders, Chest, and Triceps and Ab Ripper X

"And why do I know it works? Because I'm also a member". Today, I feel the pride, sincerity, and belief that the great founder and member of the Hair Club for Men felt when he uttered these historic words. During our first P90X workout our peppy, annoying, inspiring and somewhat creepy instructor barked out these melodramatic and sensationalistic words, "we're changing lives across this great country of ours". At the time, I thought this guy was taking himself way too seriously - I imagined this is what the Jonestown leader sounded like. It was truly cult-like, but instead of matching robes they all had on matching muave P90X tanktops. But, now, I see the light, I get it, and it is righteous and beautiful my brothers and sisters. Don't be afraid, embrace the revelation, cover your whole body in the Truth; bask and glow and let it imbue your soul with contentment and purpose. Namaste. Come forth and be annointed. Tony you changed lives across the great country of the United States - don't worry, I've got Canada covered. 

Some of you may be confused - doubtful even, but this is all a normal adjustment to understanding the groundbreaking, paradigm-shifting, life-changing, muscle-bulging truth of 'the X'. I beckon, plead, and righteously request you order your P90X tanktops for the low price of a 29.95 down payment - whereafter, you are required to give me all your possessions. Don't worry, where we're going material things are meaningless. The only possession you require are beautiful, sparkling, clit-boner inducing abs...and we will be giving you this great gift in exchange for all of your things.

The point of all this mind-numbing, grandstanding, religio-economic rhetoric is that a few of my friends have decided to start P90X. That's all. I guess I represent a pretty functional motivational tool for some. Before, when my ranch, cheese and beer guzzling buddies and I would see someone who is dedicated to being in shape, we would claim that's just not us, it's not part of what matters to us and that guy is dumb and not smart and we are, so we don't need to compensate by working out. This and other ego-empowering rationalizations were constantly made. But, the fact that one of us - arguably the most ranch and cheese saturated individual - broke off and joined the other side, caused these rationalizations to be liquidated of all their oily, greasy, ranch and cheese meaning leaving only a crusty receptacle of sorry excuses. Quite basically, 'if Bomber can do it, why the fuck can't I'. 

I found the biggest motivator to do this program came from writing about it. It allowed a bunch of my friends to know I was attempting it, creating more expectations and therefore greater failure if I did not finish. Great expectations are the material the strongest and urgent motivations are made out of. In that spirit - the spirit of trying to help - I will  list the names of my friends that are taking the P90X plunge. If you know them please send them messages saying that you know and you are watching them. Here are the following cadets of the P90X program,

Mr. Graham 'Grandpa-Chest' Echlin (What was the war like Graham?).

Mr. Oli 'The New World Order is Upon Us and Will Kill Your Babies' Squire. (I think everything Al Gore said was correct, what do you think?).

Mr. Eric 'Is a Fart Art?' Shulist (I want my art-theory book back dude).

Good luck and godspeed cadets! You will need it. Be vigilant, be aware, be alert, be strong, be willing, and above all, be 'Me'. 

We had some new additions to our work out today. They are not new cadets because they have not yet decided if they want in on the Truth. They are currently considered 'Trial Privates', which is way less weird of a name considering they are not male. We have a returnee Trial Private - Raj 'PoopyTaco' Gill - and a newbie to the beat - LJ 'ThunderGlitter' McCleod. The workout was tough, unrelenting, and sweaty. The trial privates did good.

Highlights: With all four of us in the living room/kitchen, we did not have a lot of space. At one point Raj was behind me and I got hit upside the head. At first I thought she must have accidentally smacked me with her hand, but I realized this wasn't possible because we were doing squats with our hands down at our sides. Then the awful, heart-stopping realization hit me and prompted the creation of the first rule of P90X: Trial Private PoopyTaco has to wear a sportsbra - preferably with duct tape fastened around it...at all times, no matter what. I washed and washed the back of my head, but the damage was done; I will never be the same. 

State of Mind: Indoctrinated righteousness with an unflinching faith in the universal truisms contained in the P90X.

Rating: We almost did every exercise, but hit failure here and there - P82X.

Day 60 and 62: 5k Run, Chest and Back, And Extreme Sickness

Simon and Schuster; Batman and Robin; Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin; Riggs and Murtaugh; Amos and Andy; Republicans and Racism; Hate and Ignorance; Evil Dictators and Mustaches; Tiny Chicks and Big Tits; Catholicism and Hypocrisy; Glenn Beck and Inane Chalk Diagrams; Politics and Theatre; Drunk Chicks and My Dick; Nerf Guns and Good Times; Taco Bell and Intestinal Regret; George Washington and John Adams - these are all great bedfellows, they all work incredibly well together. Being sick and drinking, however, do not. Throw in dairy, and you have a biological axis of evil, a triangle of tyranny, a trifecta of tumult, a cadre of cruelty, a cavalcade of consternation, a shut-the-fuck-up-with-the-lists-and-get-on-with-it-and-I-don't-think-consternation-works-in-this-context-nevermind-I-looked-it-up-and-it-means-a-state-of-paralyzing-dismay-my-bad-but-please-move-on-because-this-is-beginning-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-my-eyes-although-I-am-technically-a-non-existent-persona-used-as-a-tool-for-interactive-dialogue-with-the-readers-so-that-doesn't-really-make-sense. 

In short, fuck.

I can't even tell what parts are the hangover, the sickness, or that suspiciously cheap burrito I bought at the gas station the night before. All I know, is I would donate bone marrow and half-an-inch of my penis to get rid of this feeling. It's like every cell in my body is being creepily humped into painful submission by that smelly, yellow troll from Sin City. (And, yes, cells have receptor sites, so they can be 'penetrated' by unwanted entities). Mentally - 'paralyzing dismay; physically, my body feels like it's being slowly broken down into a gelatanoues slime that will slowly slip and slink into a nearby sewer. I've never missed a P90X workout, will today be the first?

The weather outside matched my emotional state - cold, sad, and dreadful. Today was a cardio day so I decided I'd sub-in a 5k run instead of the regularly scheduled workout, Kenpo-X. I was not in the mood to imagine myself vanquishing various sorts of henchmen with upper-cuts and high-leg kicks. I just needed something to put my head down and drive through - running was the perfect option. I put on my all black outfit of jogging pants and hoodie - a great idea especially at night - laced my sneakers up extra tight, grabbed my mp3 player, switched on the only thing that could get my mucous-saturated juices flowing - Eye of the Tiger - and laid back down on my couch, napping for another hour. That was my first attempt. I awoke, groggy and pissed of at myself, with Eye of the Tiger still on loop, which produces the most intense I-against-the-world dreams I have ever experienced. Fortunately, the resonating emotional context of these dreams would provide the necessary motivation for me to actual go through with this. 

I peeled myself off the couch, muttering 'fuck it' underneath my breath, and ascended from my dungeon of dank misery, making my way to the starting line, Queen street. I prepped myself, slowly exhaling a mixture of air and phlegm, looking on with burning embers of determination in my eyes and napalm in my heart, all the while slowly pulling my hood over my head. I slammed down on my stop-watch, lightly growled, and took my first step. It was weak and unsure and landed atop a chunked-up piece of gravel, causing me to slightly trip, and shoot out my right hand to regain my balance. As I was getting back up, Survivor's wise and powerful words of encouragement crackled through my WestJet headphones,

Risin' up, back on the street

Did my time, took my chances

Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet

Just a man and his will to survive

I hit full pace right as the last line began to roll through my headphones. This may be a cheesy moment for some, but, for me, it was heart-palpatating, knee-knocking, vein-expanding, mind-gasming, sports-movie-montage perfection. The run was crappy, the weather was crappy, but all of these awful colliding factors made it enjoyable in a weird way. Not to overdo the Rocky theme, but I felt like I had no business making every step like Rocky had no business stepping into the ring. Simply put, I felt the high of overcoming the underdog status. 

My best time so far was 22:47. I had no designs on making this time, I just wanted to post something in the ball-park. I rigamaroled* through the finish line at 24:22 - respectable considering the circumstances.

As a result, I decided to celebrate that night.

I woke up sweating vodka, rum, and regret out of my pores. Comparing the way I felt yesterday to today is like comparing gonorrhea to full-blown AIDS. It had to be done, I had to reschedule - on Day 62, I, Eric Bombicino, missed my first P90X session. I stayed in bed until the next day where I prompty got up and moved to my couch where I would stay until 9 o'clock. I, then, rigamaroled through Chest and Shoulders and went back to bed. Determination, grit, stupidity -- call it whatever, but I paid my dues to P90X and now we're all square.

Highlights: A light dabble of teeth-clenching, white-knuckle perserverance atop an ocean of rigamarole. 

State of Mind: Temporary mucous-induced labotimization.

Rating:  5K - P83X (It was over the best time, so it can't be the full score) + C & B - P90X = P86.5

*Rigamaroled is not a proper conjugation of the adjective 'rigamarole' and if it was it is not being used in the proper context. However, I am using it as an onomatopoeia - so, I'm going to go ahead and say it's still within the bounds of proper english.

Day 59: Shoulders and Arms and Ab Ripper X.

Back with a vengeance. Lazarus returns! Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in. Allow me to reintroduce myself. Here's Johnny! Just like a sadistic Jack Nicholson poking his head through the bathroom door, my arch nemesis has axed his way back into my life, from the grave, from retirement, and onto the top of my butt. That's right people, the gregarious, annoying, evil, torturous, snarling, pain-inducing bastard is back: my butt-cut has returned. Bigger and blacker and not nearly as entertaining as Chris Rock. 

Some of you may have some questions like how can a cut on your butt be gregarious? Or, I understand how it could be bigger, but how did it get blacker and why was it even a lighter hue of black in the first place? These are important questions and I intend on answering them. Gregarious? The first thing that comes to mind is Tony the Tiger. That guy is the pinnacle of gregarity (not a word - it should be gregariousness - but it sounds way better so I'm officially adding it to the English language. And no, YOU can't do that, but I can). He's in a word, engaging - constantly, demanding and getting your attention. He is outgoing almost to a fault. When my sweat drips down the deep, muscular channel known as the small of my back - that, really, at this point, small children could water-slide down - and into my butt-cut, it engages and grabs my attention in a way a lovable, but clearly coked-up Tiger never has. So, yeah, its 'gregarity' outpaces what I once considered the 'pinnacle of gregarity' - and that's a lot of gregarity. Thus, it is gregarious.

OK, Bomber, fair enough, your annoying yet engaging explanation proves that your butt-cut can be gregarious. But, how can it be black and then even blacker? For that matter, how did Chris Rock get blacker? He followed that stand-up with 'Head of State', 'Down to Earth' and 'Osmosis Jones' - that shit is white-washed formulaic hogwash. Yes, hogwash - and, further, it is clear that his gritty Def Jam comedy days were his blackest, so how the fuck can he say he got blacker? He's following the Eddie Murphy trajectory.

For one, he's only following the Eddie Murphy trajectory in the sense that he's a great, edgey, black comedian that has been given the deserved opportunity to make movies. And, granted, 'Head of State', was a failed attempt at lightly underlining and satirizing the instutionalized racism embedded in the very fabric of our system, but at least he's not making movie after movie about shuffling kids around in mini-van from one crazy, unforeseen situation to another. And, he's still, to this day, respecting the craft that got him there - standup. Kill the Messenger was vintage Chris Rock. You know what vintage Eddie Murphy is? Delirious and Beverly Hills Cop - both of which were made when Reagan was still President. And, what the hell does this have to do with working-out or my butt-cut? No one likes long-winding, what the fuck are you doing right now, tangents, that seem to lead to nowhere, but mediocre punch-lines. You're writing is like a bad episode of Three's Company. Stay on point...why the black butt-cut?

Well, firstly, do you remember elementary school art class? When you mixed dark red and brown together you would get black. Well combining that knowledge with the fact that I wipe up, should give you your answer. (Some of you who are sticklers for colour theory may be thinking that to make black you really just mix a bunch of colours together. Well, my butt-cut also has some yellow, purple, and blue around it, so there you go. But, really, if you're sitting there contemplating whether the proper fundamentals of colour theory are being pursued in a joke that involves me wiping poo into an open wound, then you may be missing the point). 

Moving on, I had to start the workout later today. I was at my parent's house trying to get my 12 pounds of monthly laundry done and by the time I was finished, hit the road, braved rush-hour, and sufficiently rocked out to Florence and the Machine, it was 9 o'clock. So, there I was, 9 at night, nose-dripping, throat 87% clogged, about to begin my workout. You can't say I'm not commited. I wrassled Shoulders and Arms to the ground and made it bow to my will. I immediately moved onto Ab Ripper X, but as I wrote above, another foe entered the ring, laying down a bullshit tag-team while the ref wasn't looking. "What are you doing ref - come on! - really, yelling at a fan for 5 minutes? That's just not believable". As I sat down, I realized he was coming, drapped in his ominous black-cape with Hell's Bells blasting through the speakers, powerful pyrotechnics rocketing up into the rafters, he entered the arena. 

I'm a rolling thunder, a pouring rain. 

I'm comin' on like a hurricane. 

My lightning flashing across the sky. 

You're only young, but you're gonna die. 

.......

I'll give you black sensations up and down your spine

If you're into evil, you're a friend of mine

The powerful, the evil, the scary, the gregariousss...BUTT-CUTTTT. I braved the onslaught of tag-teamed pain - thank god - but this song describes every aspect of what I feel when butt-cut is around. Read it - from the top - that is my emotional state in the form of a song. 

Highlights: The V-up, roll-back (a sit-up where when you come down from it you rock back up, touching your toes) exercise was a lesson in the almost bottom-less depth of pain a human being is willing to withstand in order to do what they beleive in. Mel Gibson should make a movie about what happened here today. I was like William Wallace and Jesus Christ rolled into one. It was truly amazing.

State of Mind: I feel a wave of bloodthirsy rebelliousness washing over me like grains of jagged glass. I want to usher in a new era of political freedom or an entirely new conception of God. I am not sure which yet. I am unemployed, so maybe I'll do both.

Rating: P90X.

Day 58: Plyometrics

Blood-curdling screams, torn appendages, mashed digits, decapitated heads, exposed brain stems, crushed femurs, obliterated knee-caps, unravelled intestines, punctured lungs, and a few badly stubbed-toes -- this is the fate of the fallen White-T-Cell warriors on day 2 of battle on the plains of my throat. Fuck...Me. I feel like John C. Holmes skull-fucked me in my sleep all night with a Louisville Slugger; his python-dick would have been a welcome guest, not leaving what feels like giant, deeply-imbedded cedar slivers in my esophagus. But, Bomber, Louisville Sluggers are made out of pine. Well, for one, it feels like cedar and, for two, that's your biggest realism-beef with the above sentence? Not the ghost of a methed-out porn star force-fucking my mouth with a bat, but that the bat couldn't possibly be made out of a certain type of wood? What's wrong with you? Paint-chips may have the word 'chip' in them, but they are not an acceptable snack. 

In short, I feel horrible. If my shower wasn't the size of a phone booth, I would have laid down in it and probably had enough energy to finish masterbating. Coughing up what looks like mashed up cheese-peach-corn chunks while realizing you can't get a boner doesn't even make the top 10 worst moments of my day. (Wow, 80% of this blog so far has been about dicks - even this sentence. Whatever, Freud was a coked-up lunatic; repressed homosexuality - ha! - I'm going to go ahead and deny that as a possibility). After my shower, I was able to make it my couch where I camped out for the rest of the day, staring ominously at the TV like a drunk pedophile at a park while watching Sportscentre highlights so many times that by the end I could mouth Dan O'Toole's and Jay Onrait's hilarious, whimsical, and teleprompted dialogue in its entirety. Those guys are hilarious, I have no idea how that come up with that stuff!

I awoke from my slumber, hearing a distant bell toll - Millard must be home. He entered into my dank, dungeon of a basement apartment and looked down at my prone body like a civil war priest giving a soldier his final rites.* "Uhhh, dude, ummm, do you want to work out now or would you prefer I placed these coins on your eyes"? "P90 brooo, cough, phlegm-shot...I'm in it to win it bro".

I didn't actually say that -- I do not have enough chest hair, hair-grease, raging insecurity or Ed Hardy clothing to pull that line off. Either way, I rolled out of my casket, resurrected with the sense of body-ripping purpose that has kept me chugging along all these days. Our smug, peppy, generally annoying fitness instructor with triceps you could drink water out of, reminded us once again that plyometrics was the "mother of all P90X workouts". It's pure cardio assault. 

The first 15 minutes were god awful; there's no way around that. At one point, I would have considered main-lining draino instead of having to continue on. But, after the first 15, and once my heart rate had been sufficiently elevated, I started to feel better. I know that working-out can crush a hangover, but I had never experienced the sick workout. Now, granted, I felt much worse than I normally do throughout this, but I starting to wake-up, clearing out my brain of all the slow, moving mucous and phlegm that was impeding the speed and flow of the electrical signals shuffling around important thoughts about, say, possible dick jokes. Now, I'm not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that this isn't an accurate view of our how a cold affects our neuro-systems, but, that's what it subjectively felt like. 

Mother of all P90X workouts while having early on-set ebola-aids with no breaks? Chiggidy-check. 

Highlights: The first 15-minutes I looked like a zombie from the Thriller video doing squats and aimlessly shuffling around.

State of Mind: Phlegmy, but functional.

Rating: P90X

*Yes, people, you get dick jokes AND Hemingway references. 

Day 57: Chest and Back

Woke up this morning with what felt like a prickly, melted ball of cheddar cheese in my throat and a fever that would have put me in the 'brown-acid' tent at Woodstock. Fuck...I never get sick. I have an impenetrable immune system - my doctor told me I probably don't need to wear condoms it's so good. Deep in my genetic make-up there is probably the cure for Aids and poverty. What happened? Why the depressed immuno-response? It couldn't have been the fact I slept a grand total of 8 seconds this weekend, which happened to be on the 403 on my way to Niagara Falls. Or the fact, the only thing I ate since saturday was beef. Amazing, braized, gravy-saturated beef my Uncle made for my Grandpa's 85th (which is why I was driving to N.F.). If human flesh happened to taste like this I would support the death penalty and the proper utilization of this meat (with all the proceeds from it's sale, naturally, going to the victim's of these twisted, awful people. I should consider a job in politics with trail-blazing, visionary ideas like this). He sent me home with at least 2 lbs. of the stuff and I love him dearly for it. It made no sense to eat anything else but beef. I am no Doctor, but only having beef-based nutrients in my system for 3 days, seems fine to me. 

Either way, I felt like I either wanted to jump in front of a bus or had been hit by a truck. I gathered my strength, ambled to the fridge, and made myself a beef sandwich. It was delicious, but it did not make me feel any better. I slept for three hours, woke up, dragged my feet to the fridge, and was saddened to realize I was running out of beef. I made my last beef sandwich and laid back down. I fell asleep - at 5:01 I was dreaming I was under a gravy waterfall as lil' tasty beef children ran around. At 5:02, Millard shook me awake and told me "it was time". I was groggy, out of it, sick, and just wanted to sleep. I received these words like a suicide bomber prepping for his big date with 72 virgins. "It was time"...I had to man up and do my duty.

This week begins a new muscle growth week where we are starting with 'Chest and Back' - an exercise we did the first three weeks of the program. Actually, it is the first P90X experience we ever had. Here's what I wrote 56 days ago,

"The rest of the work-out felt like various enhanced interrogation techniques. P90X does not fuck around. If someone is ever forced to do P90X, I don't care what sort of complex legal justifications you want to make, it is fuckin' torture. It throws all sorts of different push-ups at you: diamond, wide-set, standard, decline, dive-bomber, gut-wrencher, soul-crusher, colon-cleanser etc. It did not go well; I am just proud that neither of us black-outed for that long. We probably did a good solid P32X. The rest of the 58 generally consisted of us rolling on the ground yelling "extreme". "

Today's workout was a slight improvement. And, by 'slight improvement', I mean a difference from what Patrick Swayze looks like right now (RIP) to what he looked like inRoadhouse; from Eddie Murphy in the 80's to Eddie Murphy in Norbert; from going down a skirt to find a weiner in your hand to going back in time to when you spotted that hot girl across the bar giving you eyes - point is, the difference is huge. We did every single exercise for every single rep. And our arch nemesis the diamond push-up that easily beat our asses 56 days ago, was left lying on the ground in a bloody, pulpy mess. Even though I felt like I was in the early stages of ebola-aids, it was an amazing experience to see the improvement that can occur in 56 days.

Highlights: It was all a long highlight reel of extreme push-up fortitude. But, about 3/4s into the routine, the diamond-push up reared its ugly head. We were hesitant and nervous, having no idea what we could do. I settled into the position, moving downwards until I reached the bottom, the moment of truth: could I push back up? Here's the dialogue that ensued right after this moment, "OH my god, I'm doing it Millard, bam, bam, bam, bam", "Dude, I know, yeah, extreme!!", "Extreme!!! dude", "We did it man", "I fuckin' love you dude", "sniffle sniffle", "Millard are you crying? Don't be a pussy", "I can't help it man, I have seen the top of the mountain and it is glorious", "I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about - we are in my basement".

State of Mind: I have 3 lbs. of phlegm in my face and 3-4 lbs. of beef in my bowels, but I feel great and satisfied after today's workout.

Rating: P90X. 

Day 54: 5K Run

My posts have become the length of a 1st year liberal arts paper - so, I promise this one will be short, sweet and sexy just like that girl in my 1st year polisci class that I almost talked to once, instead opting to play the suave 'hard to get' card, making zero eye contact as I fearfully fumbled my extra pen over to her. (Which happened to be my only pen that would have come in handy during our quiz). This particular strategy is long-term so If I happen to run into her now - 6 years after the fact - I'm definitely in. Chess and pimpin': they ain't that different. The rules might be slightly dissimilar, but the strategy of foresight - knowing what your opponent is going to do 6 moves/years from now - is the same. That's why I go out to bars - there are many women that I have been waiting in the lurch, strategizing, calculating, ready to entrap; I have made the proper moves 6 years ago and now I just need to check-my-mate all over them. 

Moving on, today was a cardio day so I decided to sub-in the 5K run. If you haven't been reading along, I have been timing 5k runs while scaring the hell out of people on Queen street. It's a race against the clock as well as my old self. Every time I run, I demand some improvement on my earlier times. My last time was 23:06. No matter what stood in front of me, I was going to beat that time. Doug Gilmour could have asked me if I wanted to drink beers with him and hang out in his rec room with Dave Andreychuk and Wendel Clark and I would have kept on running. I was a man possessed. 23:06 rattled through my consciousness, hissing, and taunting me. Fuck you 23:06, you are just numbers, I decide whether to personify you and allow you to hiss and taunt me - I am your creator, bow down to me!?

I made it to the half-way point - the LCBO - at 11:37. 23: 06 rose from the ashes of my consciousness like a cunty phoenix, ascending under the sheer power of its flapping labia. (I think I have unresolved issues when it comes to women). After seeing the time, I bared down and dug-in, but so did my blood-deprived nub of a wiener right against the stitching of my jogging pants. It had weaseled its way out of my underwear flap and was now sending powerful, pulsating, pain impulses directly to my brain. My wiener must have been in cahoots with 23:06 because it simply does not have the balls to do this alone. I was not going to be beaten - like I said, I was a man possessed. With many people around me, no time to spare, and without breaking pace, I summoned up the courage and jammed my hands down my joggers, recklessly and desperately adjusting my penis downwards and, first, attempting to fasten the button on the underwear flap, realizing it was not there, then moving onto tugging the underwear to the side. This move took way to long; about 4-5 seconds total. It should normally not take longer than 2 seconds, but I was panicking just like all the people I was approaching on the side-walk as I did this. 

After layers from the tip of my penis were no longer being worn away, the run felt great; almost easy. I starting tearing up the pavement. I was as determined as any time before, but there was no yelling and spitting and chortling, just a silent face of gritty resolve. I sprinted the last 500 metres, making up some time, but would it be enough? Bam! crossed the finish line, looked down at my watch...

22:47.

This is why I put myself through throbbing lung and dick pain - for moments like these. 'Triumphant Ecstasy' is the only way to describe it.

Highlights: The best highlight was the wiener episode covered above. But, some cop with a sick mustache gave me a man-nod of 'I like what you're doing'. So, that was alright. 

State of Mind: These runs are fun; I haven't run against the clock since I was 15. It is hands down the best and most exhilarating way to run. I do, however, worry that 22:47 is a super hard time to beat. I've yet to experience the defeat of not shaving some time off. So, we'll have to wait and see if I still am in love with timed runs if and when this occurs.

Rating: P90X

Day 53: Core Synergistics

Most days your body is willing to respect your requests and do what you want it to do. Today, was not one of those. It was bad - if I was famous I would have probably had to skip P90X today to do a telethon with Michael J. Fox. (Belittling the struggle and plight of one our most beloved actors stricken with  an unfair, call-the-existence-of-God-into-question degenerative muscular disorder is not funny Bomber. I get it, you're somewhat witty, but some things you think of you do not have to write. I disagree. That is all).

You see, today is March 18th making yesterday March 17th, which is the one day of the year you set an alarm to drink: St. Patrick's Day. This is a day where you excessively drink, make a wide range of generally illegal decisions, and, if you're lucky, attempt to shuve your unprotected flacid penis into a warm-hole like a magician shuving a scarf into his fisted-hand. So, naturally it is named after a Roman Catholic Saint. St. Patrick was his name and I imagine this motherfucker knew how to party -- like an incredible non-stop, party Transformer composed of parts from  Jon Belushi, Rick James, Lil' Jon, and every one's ambiguously gay Uncle with the moustache. I can, with courage and conviction, say that I did his honour proud. I drank a lot - 14 hours of it to be precise. This is apparently something to be proud of; a badge of honour that is only given out on one day of the year. I am not sure why, but I have no complaints on feeling good about myself for exhibiting 9 out of the 10 signs of alcoholism. (The 'drinking alone' one doesn't apply - there were people passed out at 4am in the dark living room I was drinking my rum in as I mumbled about how obviously gay Pat Sajak and Alex Trebek are together).

14 hours of drinking (mainly hard liquer) + Core Synergistics = shitty-cock-balls. The 'shitty-cock-balls' classification is the unofficial highest level of shittiness that can occur. As such, I do not use it often - almost never in fact. The only two other times I used it was when I was forced to watch the 'Miracle of Birth' in health class in grade nine. At the time it was horrible, but more recently it has become a super functional image in my life helping me ward off the evil being known as premature ejaculation. Try it sometime -- and if you need more 'oomph', combine that image with the one on tubgirl.com. I will not post it here because it is not appropriate. And, the second time I used it was when I thought I had gonorrhea and had to have a large jousting-sized Q-tip jammed deeply into my urethra by what I can honestly say is the weirdest man I have ever met in my life. So, yeah, in short, today was as crappy as these two situations.

We had a new addition to the troop - Raj Preet other wise known as Raj Pretzel or most commonly, PoopyTaco. She did really well for someone that is nick-named PoopyTaco. I was super amazed at her determination and unwillingness to respond to my nickname for her, PoopyTaco. Ironically, I felt like what could only be described as a PoopyTaco the whole time. But, alas, we trucked through it and totally synergized the shit out our cores. Poopy Taco!

Highlights: With the three of us, there wasn't much room. This became painfully apparent in one move - the Superman-Banana. You keep your hands and feet in the air either on your stomach, back, or sides and you switch positions every 5 seconds. I was facing left, away from Raj, we were told to move to another position, I spin over and bam! I am looking right down the gullet of what can only be described as PoopyTaco - Raj's butt, 3 inches from my face. In an amazing feat of perserverance, I lasted the 5 seconds. P90X versus PoopyTaco - the battle to end all battles - and P90X wins with convinving ease. 

State of Mind: I feel like a leprechaun vomited in my brain. But, given that, I am proud that I went through with the workout.

Rating: We did it all: P90X.

Day 51: 5k Run and Shoulders and Arms.

This week is a recovery week - as such, P90X wanted us to do yoga. Fuck that. You can't yell and scream and tear the shit out of muscle fibre and send rushing waves of dopamine, endorphins, and testosterone crashing into your consciousness with Yoga. It's 80 minutes and all it produces is gas and constant giggling at how gay it is that we're actually doing Yoga. So, we subbed in shoulders and arms and I decided to add a 5k run earlier in the day considering how badly I am going to treat my body tomorrow on St. Patty's Day. But, really, a 5k run to compensate for 14 hours of drinking is like adding a diet coke to your Blue Cheese Baconator combo. Let's see..can I get 3lbs. of grade d meat, embalmed cheese, and sodium-riddled bacon sandwiched in between two flimsy buns and a side of greasy fries and, ahh, you know what, I better watch my weight, can I get a diet coke with that? (They don't even try to trick your brain into thinking you might be eating one thing that's not god awful for you like lettuce or tomato. It's just meat, cheese, bun.)  

I geared up for my run - jumping up and down, bobbing my head, letting Florence and the Machine light up my ear cavity; I was like all of Team Canada in the dressing room before overtime. I was ready; a sprinkling of nerves amidst a general calm feeling that comes from knowing exactly what you have to do. I ran a time of 23:57 before -- so, I had to beat that. I took the first step onto the blacktop and it felt good, confident and powerful. I made it to the halfway point - the LCBO - in 11 1/2 minutes. If I kept up the pace, I could beat my time, but the way back is a much more difficult beast to tame. Fatigue, normally the most obvious and biggest obstacle, took a backseat to dumb people that do not know how to walk on a sidewalk. "I saw you see me, I'm the maniac panting and spitting and constantly murmuring, 'fuckin' doo it', yet you stay in the middle of the sidewalk with your shopping bags bowed out. Fine, I'll go around you...what are you doing?! You saw me coming from 50 metres away and you wait until 2 metres to make your move to the side. Ahhh, ok I'm going the other way then, don't go-damnit I told you not to go...BAM! Yeah, I just body-checked you...P90X bitch!"

Body-checking people while you run 5k significantly slows you down. That being said, I kept chugging, my heart and my will growing with every breath, chug!, chug!, 'c'mon', 'dooo it', 'don't give in', 'you are the best', 'fuck yeahhh', 'bring the pain', 'hardcore from the brain', 'lets go inside like astral plane'. 

Bam, Method Man and I crossed the finish line at...

23:06.

Fuck yeah. "I be hectic, and comin for the head piece, protect it."

I chilled for an hour and then Millard and I ripped shoulders and arms. When we first did this exercise, we hit failure at the half-way point and struggled through a lot of the exercises. I laugh, point at, and pity my old self - we hit every exercise for every rep and even started lifting 30's instead of 20's. Bam! 'I'm sick, insane, crazy, drivin' Miss Daisy'.

Highlights: The last kilometre of my run highlights the depth and power of the human will.

State of Mind: Seriously realizing I ain't nothin' to fuck wit. 

Rating: P90X

Day 47 & 50: Shoulders and Arms and Core Synergistics

Between Friday and Monday, the skies parted and the giant hand of fate appeared, handing me my life's mission statement. What did it say? Become a veterinarian? A taxidermist? Kill Andy Dick? Make life-like dolls of celebrities with your pubic hair and sell them on eBay? 

It is none of these -- sadly, I realized last year that it would take decades to bail enough pubic hair to complete what would be my life's work: a life-like pubic replica of the Jonas Brothers. The powerful irony of this piece would have taken the artworld by storm. This is a band that has sold over 8 million albums and not a single penny spent on these albums came from people with pubes. Remarkable irony. Sadly, the decades required to compile the materials for this piece were too much; in 16-20 months, no one will know who the Jonas Brothers are, let alone, in the 16-20 years required for the necessary pubic accumulation.*

But, I digress...what is my life's mission statement? The epiphany occured on Saturday night while a 35-year old brown man was dancing on my back.

I, Eric Bombicino, was put on this earth to Krump. If you are not familiar with the greatest form of dance known to man, then, A), what is wrong with you, and, B), here it is:

This is tight eyez and J. Slaught - they are like the Lemieux and Gretzky of the Krump scene. Why not the updated analogy of Crosby and Ovechkin? Well that wouldn't make sense, because that role is currently being filled by Millard and I. We are on the verge of taking over the Krump game. Gretzky, you have arthritis; Lemieux, you've had cancer twice - please step off the stage.

Krump is the shit. It's as simple as that. It is the most aggresive, ballin', therapeutic, split-your-wig and simultaneously crack-your-dome dance form out there. Therapeutic? Yeah, any repressed anger, stress, hate - anything negative - you can bleed it all out - all of it - in one ballin' ass krump. One, that's it...and you won't hate your dad anymore, hit your wife or resent your child for ruining your once perfectly-fitted vagina.** In couple's counselling they have foam bats for venting suppressed rage - fuck that, foam bats are outdated 90's psycho-nonsene. If these middle-aged cracker-ass couple's that have 300 dollars to blow a session, got up and Krumped to some early DMX, they'd save their marriage. Done - one session with the therapist. And, any other domestic squabbles could be quelled by flippin' on some Roughriders, pulling back the hand-woven oriental rug, and Krumpin'. "Krump Saved My Marriage": I'm printing the bumper stickers and t-shirts as we speak.

Bomber, what the fuck does you and Millard practicing Krump in your backyard and annoying your neighbours all week have to do with P90X? I'm glad you asked. You need P90X to be able to rock a legit Krump, son. This is true for numerous reasons. There's the physical side: I plan on rockin a lot of 'ground tactics' when I krump - aggrressively poppin' to the ground and instananeously bouncin' back up. You need incredible core strength to do this. P90X has given me this. Also, Krump is super-intense - it requires high-levels of cardio and strength; without them, you will fail. But, all the physical reasons aside, P90X has given us the most important thing to maximimize your Krumpitude: a dog-like determination. Sometimes, Millard or whoever else I let in my Krump group, will get out there and bust a ridiculous Krump, sending shockwaves of jubilation, disbelief, and frenzied mania throughout the crowd. How the fuck do you follow that up? A non-P90Xed will would buckle and crumble under the pressure. Not mine and not Millard's. We were trained to rise above any adversity, no matter how troubling and boot-quaking it is.

In any event, shoulders and arms on friday finished off our second phase of P90X. This week is a recovery week - hence, the core synergistics yesterday, which is tough, but it doesn't beat you up like some of the muscle-growth exercises.

Highlights: Saturday night at the RedBull DJ Battle ran like a series of highlights. This is the night I stumbled upon my destiny while a lovely brown-man Krumped the fuck outta my back. Which, can be seen here:

At a bunch of points people turned from the stage to surround us and watch some of the most mind-obliterating, hair-raising, goose-bump percolating, epic dance-battling that they've ever seen. Shit son, we ran that d-floor.

State of Mind: Pure, unadulterated, strangle a baby with a lamp-cord, Krump aggression.

*Unless, YOU, the reader, are prepared to help out. I will get a large P.O. Box if neccessary. 

**Like the chair Martin Crane on Fraser sat-in. I spent years working this thing to perfectly contour to every nook and cranny on me and you come busting out all willy-nilly, head, shoulders and all, ruining my perfect fit. Fuck you. I hate you. Good luck getting to 6am hockey practice, I will be drinking all night.

Day 45 and 46 - Back and Bis and 5k Run

So, we are officially at the half-way point. I have grown 4 abs, little tufts of muscle on the underside of my arms - I believe they are called "triceps" - and an iron will. Thank you P90X. But, the real question is, 'how do I feel'?

I could go into a long, winding, complex and convoluted answer about how P90X has taught me to seek challenges and the immeasurable awards that come along with them. But, instead, I can provide you with an actual example of what P90X has taught me.

This is going to sound absurd, silly, downright illogical and, yes, maybe, just straight up "Simpoo Jack" fully-retarded... but, I might attempt to do a triathlon in July. I will repeat that, I, Eric Bombicino - yes, the same I am going to dip this bread into a bowl of ranch for dinner Eric Bombicino - am going to compete in a triathlon. Now, this is not for sure. It is still all very preliminary. There are many obstacles to overcome. But, the point is, I want to do this. It will suck, but it will be amazing at the same time. P90X has created a fuel-injected, virile, go-get-em' beast that wants to put the whole fuckin' world in his bis-and-tris meat-fest of a headlock.

First major obstacle - I don't know how to swim. This is going to make the 750m swimming portion of the traithlon difficult. Let me clarify, I can swim, but I have never competitevely swam. I know no technique and have no idea if I could do it properly. I am going on thursday to a pool and we will see. If I can do it at a moderately functional level, there is only one more obstacle to this thing,

I need a bike. (So, thus far, I don't know how to swim and don't have a bike.) I have a Supercycle Canadian Tire mountain bike with some sick-ass shocks on the front, but no road-bike. The 'Supercycle' is still an option and, really, represents the iron-will to succeed I am talking about. Considering the ol' ranch-and-cheese Bomber, If I do a traithlon, I can do almost anything. But, If I do it with a 76-dollar bike from Canadian Tire - jesus, I should probably be given the 'Order of Canada'. Seriously, if I do this, I wouldn't be surprised if Wayne Gretzky and Sidney Crosby show up at my door with the highest accolade a citizen can receive in Canada. 

In any event, if someone has a bike or knows where I could get a cheap one, leave some suggestions in the comments box.

I did Back and Bis yesterday. It's the hardest workout in the P90X circuit. It launches a full scale air, land, and sea war on your biceps. It creates such devastating levels of muscle failure, that when I drink my shake afterwards, I have to amp myself up to get it to my mouth. Nevertheless, we trucked through it.

Today was a cardio day - Kenpo-X, to be specific. In light of this traithlon nonsense, I decided to sub-in a 5k run instead. I used to run when I was a kid and I jog a little in the summer, but that's about it. I had no idea going in what sort of time to expect. I spoke with some people and surfed the web and the consensus was there was no way an amateur runner like myself could break 30 minutes. Millard went so far as to say my time would be 37:59. Patricia, that cruel hooker-slute cock-goblin of a tramp, said I couldn't do it in under 40. 

 I saddled up to the curb, popped in 'Florence and the Machine' on my Sansa (Ipods suck...when you can't afford them) mp3 player, and hit the pavement. I didn't consider that Queen street has traffic lights. Waiting for the light to turn as precious seconds tick away was painful, but that's about the only thing that was. I was a man filled with a powerful symphony of neuro-fireworks: testosterone bursting in the air, dopamine exploding across the horizon, endorphins rocketing and screaming across my consciousness...running, 'it's a hell of a drug'. I made it to the half-way point (the LCBO) in good time. But, I didn't know if I had enough in the tank to keep up the pace. I didn't consider that I have a reserve tank of pure, unfiltered determination. I kept pushing and pushing. I had made it to the last kilometre, I was tired and weakening, but gathered up the will and warped into a zone of desperate determination. I wanted this so bad. I felt like I was in a Rocky montage - scrap that, I felt like the entire conglomerate of every sports movie montage was in my head concentrated into emotional form. In short, I scared the shit out of every one on Queen street in my final kilometre. I was barking, chortling, shooting sweat from my mouth, snot from my nose - I was a man possessed by the spirit of conviction.

I sprinted through the finish line. Time?

23:57.

Yeah. Fuck you Millard. 

Highlights: Some lady looked at my flopping penis in my shorts and smiled. But, this wasn't a positive smile. You see, when you work out or do something active, your body rushes blood as fast as it can to your extremities. Thus, it will take blood from where it is not needed - like, say, your penis. Because of this, when I run, my penis is mind-bogglingly tiny; your muscle fibre is as deflated and tightly packed together as it can get. So much so, that your penis actually feels kind of hard. So, yeah, some lady laughed at my tiny penis. Whatever, if she knew my 5k time, she would not be laughing.

State of Mind: Running is an incredible high - especially, when you are competing against the clock. This traithlon thing is still in its infantile stages, but I am excited that I actually want to do this stuff. 

Rating: B & B (P65X), 5k run (P90X) = P77.5

Day 44: Plyometrics

 We're approaching the half-way point - making it a good time for a little reflection and possibly some pictures, but we'll have to wait and see about those. I have enough buddies who are far too ambiguously sexually-oriented, to feel completely comfortable with hot pics of me out in cyberspace. (I'm mostly talking about Csaba). I don't know if I am totally uncomfortable with, say, posing for TeenBeat or some magazine like that and having the possibility that random gay men are making god sad to it. That's part of being a sex symbol. But, there's something exponentially grosser about some closeted gay buddy crying to your picture with his dick in his hand. "Why was I born this wayyy. Goddamn you Bomber and your unnecessarily chiseled features!". I think it's like the opposite of the naked-pics-of-girls-you-know affect. Yeah, there are many hot pictures of naked women on the internet, and god knows I've tried to see them all. But, lets face it, we would trade any of them for a picture of a hot girl we know. There's just something much more wicked-sexy about that. (Reason being, you know them, you get drunk and look at their cleavage and concoct fantasies involving said cleavage and maybe mustard or a real-life wax statue of George Clooney or whatever and all of this builds, making you more and more curious. You have wanted to see it for so long, plus, quite simply, you've seen them in person and talked to them, so the image itself becomes that much more real).

Alas, I am straying from the point, half-way reflections is the theme of this post and probably the next. I'll unload a few now. My butt-cut. I have not mentioned this yet. I've talked about procrastination, bad weekend habits and so on as being my biggest obstacles. This is not true - my butt-cut has by far been my biggest obstacle. "But, Bomber, whatever do you mean by butt-cut?" Well, I have a giant cut on my butt. It's at the very top part of my crack where it straddles both cheeks and dips into the ravine that leads to pleasure-town. I got this cut the first week doing P90X and yes it should have healed by now, but every time I do Ab Ripper X, I slowly rip, gouge, and tear away any semblance of a scab that was growing. I do Ab Ripper X three times a week evenly spaced-out. This gives my body just the perfect amount of time to create a nice, new layer of scab and then, bam!, I tear it off yet again. (Scab, tear, repeat). Almost all my underwear has blood in it. Do you know how weird that looks if a girl ever sees blood in your underwear. Let alone, all your underwear. I have 2 pairs of black underwear, those are what I wear when I go to the bar. The butt-cut will not heal until I am done P90X, which means I only have to deal with it for 46 more days. Fuck! You cannot say I am not committed.

Moving on, Millard and I, yet again, dominated Plyometrics. I have written about it before, but to quickly summarize, it is apparently the "mother of all P90X workouts". It's mean and relentless. The first month was torture. But, now, we can whip through it with minimal grimacing. We have made some serious strides in these 44 days and we should be proud of it'. Congratulations Millard. Way to go Bomber.

I'll leave the rest of the reflections for tomorrow. I've got, if I decide to go through on it, some earth-shattering news about my future plans. This will leave your jaw on the floor. (And, no, it's not about an upcoming TeenBeat spread. Ha! 'TeenBeat Spread', that sounds really hot).

Highlights: Quite simply, a series of beautiful, synchronized, and perfect moments of plyo-domination. It was like aggressive ballet.

State of Mind: I'm feeling good. It's nice to know you are in much better shape, it opens a lot of doors in terms of stuff you've always wanted to do.

Rating: P90X

Day 43: Shoulders, Chest and Triceps and Ab Ripper X

My biggest stumbling block to insane-o body-rippitude is best summed up by the soulful and revealing lyrics of the greatest R&B singer of all time: R. Kelly,

Sippin' on Coke and Rum, I'm like so what I'm drunk. It's the freakin' weekend baby, gonna have me some fun [and so much fooood, I'm so fuckin' dumb.] 

My body is starting to achieve so many accolades and love, but every weekend I go and piss on a bunch of really hot 16-year olds. And why not, I deserve it, I've worked so hard and achieved so much, why not tinkle a lil' on some tasty tots. This is bad reasoning. I know it, R. Kelly knows it. Kobe might not know it, but my body has not achieved Kobe-level awesomeness. My body simply will not progress and get as huge as Hasselhoff in Germany if I treat it like this on weekends. I eat and drink like Jon Belushi and Chris Farley rolled into one. I simply don't know how to fix this.

It's like trying to quit smoking while drinking; when I drink, copious amounts of cheesy, greasy food becomes necessary. It's a scientific fact that eating before bed is not a good idea - it will not get burned off and will be stored as fat. However, as the great Aziz Ansari elucidated, a recent in-depth scientific study shows that eating a burrito at 3 am is delicious. This is an incontrovertible fact - so, the science is fuzzy at best. 

Either way, I know I need to not eat all this whorey, greasy food on the weekends. But, I also need to drink - it makes me better-looking and funnier. Everyone would agree. This is a conundrum. I do not have any answers. If you do, please leave them in the comments section.

That being said, I ripped myself from the greasy-fogginess of my hangover, pulled my furniture aside, and flipped on P90X. Millard would not be my wingman for this one - he had some family issues to tend too. He probably doesn't want me saying anything about this, but apparently since around the time he hit puberty, his urethra has been expanding, slowly growing outwards. As it grew, it caused the top of his penis to slowly roll down, further and further, creating a flap that the doctor referred to as a "labia". Apparently it has gotten so bad, that he needs to pee sitting down now. I hope he and his family can get through this tough and trying time. 

My condolences go out to Millard's girlfriend also. But, really, I don't think it's that big of a deal. Girls like Millard because he's gentle, cute, and non-threatening. Lets face it, they're already half-lesbians anyways. At that point, what's another half? Get off the fence and be who you are. So, Stacey, congratulations on being a lesbian.

Highlights: Well, today's highlight when Millard gets home is probably going to be a punch in the face. And by a 'punch in the face', I mean a sulky face. But, the workout's highlight was me wailing my head of a 20 pounder as I came down from a sit-up (v-up roll-back to be specific).

State of Mind: OK, so I am doing this. It has become routine. That is good. But, my mind does not reflect this - it is a tangle of contradictory thoughts and insecure doubts about actual results. Either way, I am doing it, and I should take solace in that fact. 

Rating: S & C & T (P60X) + AbRprX (P85X) = P72.5

Day 40: Shoulders and Arms and Ab Ripper X

Anger today. Intestine-crushing, teeth-gritting, Chris Brown plus Bobby Brown, 'what the fuck did you say bitch' anger. And it's not the form of anger that helps you workout - the confident, deep, testosterone-pumping, I am taking on the world anger complete with the shaking, methed-out stare of a Norwegian-Death-Metal lead singer. That's not it. It's a weaker, more pathetic sort of anger. One of insecurity that leads to frustration and then to exasperated anger. 

Why?  Maybe, expectations falling short. When I started I was not in good shape. And, in a short period of time, with resolve and spirited conviction, I started getting bigger and stronger. Expecations were soaring on the heals of numerous decisive and pronounced victories. Now, I expect more when I workout, but I am not achieving it and my heart is clearly not in it. P90X is putting up too much resistance and I feel like I am getting worse, it is taking back some of my earlier gains. I went from a confident, well-oiled war-machine to an insecure, frustrated, white-flag-waving wreck. I feel like Hitler in the Spring of 1945. It all started out so well. Initially, I was in a state of disrepair and alienation where I just didn't have the follow-through or organization to make things better. Something had to give. I had to put aside my inefficient and lazy ways; I had to storm the Reichstag of my mind and take over the controls instilling discipline and organization. A new era of 'Bomber' had dawned and within the first week I had seized the Sudetenland. A minor victory for some, but a symbolic one for me - I was moving in the right direction, I was pursuing my genetic destiny (I always knew if I worked out, I could see some serious results). 

Over the next 30 some-odd days, I grew and grew - my confidence and size was at an all-time high. I am half-french and half-italian - so on one side, I like to smoke, laze around, and drink all day and on the other, I like to eat delectable, cheesy foods, high in carbohydrates all day while being racist and beating my wife. These are some serious obstacles - I immediately rolled over the French side. I allied with the Italian initially: carbohydrates are a necessary part of a succesful workout regime and wife-beatings are like bonus reps. But, alas, I realized the constant cheese-eating and need to eat at all hours of the day, even after large meals, was not an ally of mine at all. The Italian-side eventually turned on me, but, for the better, I did not need it. It would only make me stronger - indeed, this was my real genetic destiny: total body-rippitude.

I had victory after victory. I owned the home-workout theatre. My friends - we'll call them the allies - had seen enough. Their own identities could not take me - lil ol' decrepid Bomber - getting this big. In the end, the weight of my own expecations and hubris, caused me to buckle today. I just expected too much and stretched myself out too thin. I simply cannot do a set of slo-mo push-ups on one front and then expect to be able to do one-arm pushups on the other. A two-front P90X assault is not something I can handle.

Today was a devastating day - D-Day for short - where I realized I need to tone down my delirious expecations and allow my confidence to build from realizable goals. 

Nevertheless, I trucked through Shoulders and Arms and immediately did Ab Ripper X - that is commendable and something I should take pride in. Granted, maybe I am not getting all the reps in and wussing out on a few here and there, but, at least, I'm still on my cold, fake-hard-wood floor grinding it out.

Highlights: Jumping to Ab-Ripper X, after getting completely assaulted by Shoulders and Arms (Soviets in Arms?). Thus proving, for once and for all, I am better than Hitler - a two-front war is sustainable. 

State of Mind: Covered above. I just need to get to a more relaxed, less frustrated state. Maybe, I'll take my frustrations out on a weak, defenseless home workout routine. Hey, it worked for Chris Brown...he's doing great now.

Rating: (S & A) P70X + (ABRprX) P85X = P77.5X

Day 39: Kenpo X

I told a friend I haven't seen in a while that I was basically on day 40 of P90X. His immediate, overexcited and mildly homosexual reply was, "are you jacked now"? I, on the off-chance my old drinking buddy (who I have spent countless hours with in his mom's hot-tub and recently broke up with his girlfriend) was making a homosexual inquiry, responded evasively and vaguely: "it's a long way up from rock-bottom". End of conversation, we moved on to him wanting to become a firefighter (I know, purple-yellow-blue-green-red flags going off everywhere). But, after the conversation, I got to seriously thinking about the question.

Am I jacked now? 'Jacked' is a pretty high and prestigious category for the male body to reach. Brad Pitt in Seven or Fight Club was 'jacked'. So, was Swayze in Roadhouse. Or, Mark Wahlberg in Three Kings. 'Jacked' to me is the highest level of ripped before you enter into 'huge' or 'bulked up' territory, which I do not want to enter. 'Jacked' is the goal. Have I reached it yet? Well, if I looked like Swayze in Roadhouse, I would not be writing this now. I would be fucking...everything. No one would be safe; nor would they want to be. OK, maybe, I'm exagerrating a little for effect. I probably wouldn't be fucking right this instant - I'd most likely have my dick dipped in a pint glass of calamine lotion due to the awful friction burn from all the fucking. But, Bomber, just because you have a really, excrutiangly, keep-me-up-at-night-tossing-and-turning-and-periodically-rubbing-the-shit-out-of-my-clit-boner, hot body, doesn't mean all women are going to automatically sleep with you. 

First of all, have you seen Swayze in Roadhouse? Why they haven't made statues or monuments or national holidays for what occured in this movie, I do not know. This was the historic high-water-mark for male-body perfection. Nothing, I mean nothing, beats Swayze in Roadhouse and it never will. If, for whatever reason, a mob of angry gay people start rioting and pillaging, you just need to put Roadhouse on a giant screen and everything will stop immediately. If we needed to round up the gays to bring them to a fun camp, we would not have to break into their homes at night and forcibly round them up (god knows, they might get turned on and he also knows they are immoral savages). We just need to show them a picture of Swayze in Roadhouse keeping it just barely out of arms reach, like a carrot to a donkey, and they will follow.  At the gay porn awards, Roadhouse, has won for the last two decades. If you are a woman and Swayze in Roadhouse walked up to you and said, "I will sleep with you know", and you decline, then just hand in your vagina because you aren't using it properly. I don't care if you are a lesbian, it's fuckin' Swayze in Roadhouse. In Donnie Darko, an older Patrick Swayze plays a motivational speaker that's also a pedophile. If this character was Swayze from 15 years prior, I would have been jealous of those children. 

Point being, I am not 'jacked' yet. I hope to, at the end of this program, sneak into the bottom rung of the 'jacked' category. Making it to the upper-Swayze-echelons, is something so far away, it is unspeakable. But, do I look better? Things are shaping-up - let's put it this way, I am moving towards that picture of Swayze. I am not sure what I mean by that, but I am looking better. I just need to stop brutalizing my body on weekends as much as I do. On saturday morning, I had eggs benny and a veal sandwich for breakfast. Pretty sure, that's not in the P90 nutritional guide.

Highlights: Today's workout was sweet. Lot's of power-packed upper-cuts, jabs, kicks etc. I was beating-up imaginary henchmen like a picture of Swayze beats the hope out of any men ever to look that good. 

State of Mind: Today was a lot of fun, but I am having doubts that this program is going to make me look that much better. I want results - I will attempt to channel this into more workout motivation.

Rating: P85X

Day 38: Back and Bis and Ab Ripper X

We are stronger and the workouts are becoming easier, but they suck more. I'm not entirely too sure why. They're just not as exciting; they're tedious and I simply just want them to be over. I watch the clock, count how many exercises we have left, and basically have the future time when I finish in my mind throughout the entire workout. We used to revel in the simple act of lifting weights - that moment of burn when you tear apart muscle fibre like a Soviet child from his political dissident parents used to send waves of endorphins and adrenaline rushing to our brain. It's like we don't believe in our beloved Mother Russia anymore - the propaganda has been stripped away, exposing the naked truth of a delirous state hell-bent on territorial aggrandizement. Why do I need to expand my territory? I don't need to be any bigger; I am happy with my current size and general condition. I'm funny and smart, I don't need to be big. Being big is the refuge of those who did not develop personalities as an insecure youth. I'm like Japan - I have enough innovation and savvy to be more than competitive within the (vagina) market. 

But, maybe, I'm missing the point. If it was in the best-interest of the state, wouldn't Japan expand its territory? Wouldn't it clean up its environment? It's not about expanding territory so other countries fear you and give you things and make alliances with you. It's about becoming healthier and creating better conditions in which to live. At the start of this, I was living in an overpopulated country with little to no sewage infrastructure and almost no environmental regulations. I was Rwanda. Now, I eat healthier, have almost quit smoking, and have seen my cardio and overall strength increase substantially. I've cleaned up my act and have begun developing - I am like Singapore now. There is still much work to do, but the future is promising.

Why this paradigm shift? Why have workouts gotten tedious and crappy all of a sudden? I think the first 1/3rd of this program we we're amazed every time we did it. It was like I was proving something to myself and everyone around me. I was an underdog and through sheer perserverance and will, I tackled this monster of an obstacle. I was Rudy, I was Rocky. 

But, Bomber, those are our most beloved fictional characters that represent the indomitable will, hardwork, and perservance man has within. You doing an hour of homeworkouts, 5 days a week, might not stack up. 

For one, it's sometimes 6 days a week and, two, this person has clearly never met me before P90X. Mine was a road of procrastination, slovenliness, and general degeneracy. I had a will made of peanut brittle (and then I ate it). I had never really done anything that required discipline and hardwork (except for maybe my maroon belt when I was 8. Sensai Jim graduated me a week earlier than most (on the account we were going on vacation to Florida)). I think, I am officially over the hump of ol' degenerate, never-see-things-through, Bomber. So, now, that amazing feeling of "I can't believe I'm doing this" has subsided, leaving only "fuck, we do this everyday, this sucks". 

Apparently, others are also over the hump of "I can't beleive he is doing this". They assumed I'd crap out eventually and their initial inclinations would be proven. The fact, I am really doing this, is sending a whirlwind of motivation through people as far as 5000 km away. If Bomber, fuckin' Bomber, is working out everday, then I have no excuse. I am the ultimate workout motivation. I'm like Terry Fox. In terms of willpower and discipline, I was always standing on one leg, and yet I am running across Canada. You have no excuses. Put up or shut up. 

A group of friends that I lived with in Whistler for the summer, are experiencing a gut-wrenching imposition of spite-fueled motivation. Via their facebook posts, it is apparent they are starting P90X. Not, because they want to be healthier, feel better mentally and physically, and live longer, but in the words of my old creepy Swedish roomate, "lets git mor ripped then bomer". I am glad that my P90X venture has dug a deep insecure-hole in your identity that can only be filled by muscle and protein-powder. Good luck gentlemen, I will actually be pulling for you and wishing you the best. Also, good-luck having to workout with Csaba in his euro-trash, 100% nylon, fuschia and flower-print-laden workout gear. 

Highlights: I worked out alone today and it was difficult. This exercise attacks your biceps, one exercise after another. The question of soul-shattering muscle-failure is not if, but when. I gave er' my all and then immediately popped on Ab Ripper X. One hell of a workout. Eat it, flabby Whistler cheese-infused loserfags. The gauntlet has been thrown down.

State of Mind: I explained the change in how I feel when I workout above. But, this new 'Whistler-Challenge' may have added the spark necessary to relight the firey abyss of bomber-body-rippitude. 

Rating: P55X (B & B) + P85X (ABrprX) = P70X + 5 for doing em' back2back = P75X

Day 37: Plyometrics

The first month of plyometrics, I absolutely dreaded it. I would have rather given birth to a 2 year-old, had an Alien burst through my torso, or undergone a colonoscopy with an old garden-hose than have to suffer through the gut-punching doom of plyometrics. All three of them in row? Wash the hose and bring it on, I fuckin' hate plyometrics.

A new era of cardio-fortitude has begun. I man-handle plyometrics now - hell, I could do it while strangle-borting that baby with the garden-hose and head-butting the shit out of the alien that sprung from my torso. Millard and Patricia (Millard's sweaty beard) too. Those two silly bastards laugh in the face of the monster known as plyotron. The fire it used to cause in Millard's legs is easily doused with a quick ringing of Patricia. They are an unstoppable team that perfectly compliment my gun-slingin', lone-ranger approach to P90X. It's like I'm Superman and they're Batgirl and Robin and our arch villain is the presumed-dead U-Boat Captain Freidrich Flab. And let me tell you, imagining Patricia in that Batgirl outfit shoots sextricity up and down my spine. New Batgirl movie: early 90's Michelle Pfeiffer, Halle Berry, Megan Fox; they all take a back seat to Patricia. The thought of those flowing, luxurious locks shooting forth from that tight leather-outfit is almost too much to handle.

Highlights: We are mid-jump squat, when a few people we do not really know come in the front door. Judging by their attempt to hold back laughter, I'd say home-workouts in matching board-shorts is not ready to be taken seriously by the general public.

State of Mind: It's become a recurring theme, but again, it's clear, I have the cardio and strength of an 8-year old boy. We are getting better at the weight-lifting routines, but still, they are a serious problem. You look at my determined stare, new and bigger arms replete with fat, sexy, veins pulsating through the granite-like tissue and you assume weight-lifting would be no problem. It's like watching Superman walk-up to some dumbbells and struggle - it makes no sense. But, little, do you know those weights are made out of Kryptonite. And, that is exactly how I feel about them - for the time being, they are my Kryptonite. But, that will change, soon enough.

Rating: P90x