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.