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vagina.** In couple's counselling they have foam bats for venting suppressed rage - fuck that, foam bats are outdated 90's psycho-nonsene.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.
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